IlIBPlARY OF CONGRESS,! 

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I UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. | 









I 



GENTLEFOLKS 



AND 



OTHERS 



BY 



JULIA DUHRING 



AUTHOR OF ''PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS.' 



Critic. — So you think you understand life, do you? 

Author. — Pardon me — my words must have caused a misapprehen- 
sion. I understand nothing. I simply report things seen from one 
standpoint. From another position, doubtless, my testimony would 
be widely different. 



PHILADELPHIA 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO 

1876 







^^t&'v 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, by 

JULIA DUHRING, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



TO 
MY MOTHER 
CAROLINE DUHRING 

Should I speak here of the tenderest of hearts, of the most 
refined of thoughts, of the staunchest of principles, — of these 
as embodied in one sacred name and consecrated throughout 
the past and in the present to all womanly deeds ? No, — 
leaving unsaid the countless things I would fain have the 
whole world know, I offer to you pages which but for your 
loving care of the hand that writes, never could have seen 
the light. 



PREFACE 



Men and women interest us in proportion to what 
we know of them. Form, feature, movement, speech 
and conduct, tell us one half: surroundings, educa- 
tion, occupation and results attained, tell the other 
half. From the whole we come to see how curious a 
mixture of inherited traits, of special endowments, of 
world-influences, of self-control and of self-indulgence 
we all are. How far we are responsible for the color- 
ing of our own lives, how far for that of other lives, 
are questions to be answered only after careful obser- 
vation and impartial deductions. 

Looking at Human Nature with a sincere desire 
to learn its meaning, I can see no truth of so vital 
an importance as individual development. That this 
belief does not necessarily produce beautiful effects 
or noble works, I should be prompt to admit. But 
if you and I give of our best and continue the pur- 
suit of something still better, can more than this be 
demanded? 

Philadelphia, 1416 Spruce Street. 
May, 1876. 



CONTENTS 









PAGE 


I. — Gentlefolks 9 


II.— Lovers of Nature . 






. AT 


III. — Letter- Writers 






68 


IV. — Foolish Virgins 






90 


V. — Overrating our Neighbors 






108 


VI. — Fascination of Roving . 






124 


VII.— Egoists .... 






168 


VIII. — Passionate Women . 






193 


IX. — Liars, Thieves, and the Like 






215 


X. — Confidants 






228 


XI. — Erratic People 






238 


XII. — Authors .... 






255 


XIII. — Our Knights .... 






279 



I. 
GENTLEFOLKS. 



Who does not like Gentlefolks — like to know them, 
to be with them, to hear of them ? And why not? 
If it be laudable to value and seek the best animals, 
the best fruits, the best fabrics, why not the best peo- 
ple? In common phrase, "Gentlefolks are no better 
than other folks." True enough : but true only from 
one point. Viewed on all sides, they are not simply 
better, but immeasurably better,- than other folks. 
They look better, behave better. They see more, 
reflect more, feel more. What they say has greater 
weight, what they do greater effect. They read their 
fellow-men, not by their clothes or their houses, but 
by their personality and conduct. And they read 
thus, not in a spirit of criticism, but to bring about a 
just and amicable intercourse. 

They do not profess belief in equality as a frater- 
nizing of rudeness and gentleness. They did not 
make the distinctions of social life : they found them 
already made. They accept them as an arrangement 
for which they are not responsible beyond the per- 
formance of their own part. 

Who are Gentlefolks ? How are they to be recog- 
nized ? What part do they play in the world ? 

a 9 



lO 



GENTLEFOLKS. 



First of all, they are physically superior. Not that 
stature, muscle, and features are of special quality; 
it is the bearing, the controlling, the adapting of the 
physique which exact our admiration. 

They walk with firm, elastic step; one which obeys 
volition readily, spiritedly, gracefully. It is a degree 
of the same pleasure we derive from witnessing good 
riding, swimming, dancing, or any other form of mo- 
tion. Comparing a given number of men subjected to 
military drill wnth the same number taken from com- 
merce or mechanics, we quickly detect the value of 
drill applied to walking. Does not the first glance at 
a crowded thoroughfare show every grade of striding, 
mincing, shuffling, dragging, swaggering, strutting ? 
And do not these motions clearly signal special 
tidings of character and circumstance? Prosperity, 
adversity, resolution, vacillation, energy, sluggish- 
ness — these and similar conditions or traits speak 
plainly enough from a man's ordinary walk. 

With women the case is somewhat different. The 
costume of modern civilization, however great a hin- 
drance to natural ease of movement, has a very de- 
cided negative advantage. It lends a friendly disguise 
to many characteristics which the walk would other- 
wise reveal. And women, amid the anomalous ex- 
actions of their position, surely require more than one 
aid to harmless dissimulation. Yet, aside from tram- 
mels or advantages of dress, a woman's walk is very 
expressive of good- or ill-breeding, as well as of pre- 
dominant traits of mind or temperament. 

Gentlefolks know, too, the art of standing — how to 
make it express cessation of motion, but cessation 
with instant facility of starting again. The ground 



GENTLEFOLKS. 1 1 

under their feet gives forth a right of possession for 
the moments or hours it is held. The ownership is 
manifest in the equipoise of the body, in its firmness 
of posture. There is no swaying to and fro, no bal- 
arTcing of arms and legs, no irresolute turning of the 
head this way and that way, no vacant gazing at 
surroundings, no implied tendency to loll, lean, or 
topple over. 

So when sitting they seem at ease, in repose, in a 
state of comfort. To speak of it suggests but little of 
the thing itself But to see it, means the sense of fit- 
ness that comes from control of muscle, of thought, 
of feeling. To sit still is apparently as rare an 
accomplishment among ordinary people as among 
children. To see the diverse modes of lounging, of 
wriggling, of fidgeting, of twisting the body, pro- 
duces a sensation of positive uneasiness. It gives 
the impression of the body's wishing to get away, to 
escape, to try something else. 

To know the infinite phases of character the human 
form may be taught to express, we need only glance 
at works of art, whether painting or sculpture. Not 
that we are to go to Art to learn of what Nature is 
capable : but one helps the other. Artists go to Na- 
ture for studies, go there with reverent minds, with 
skilful hands, with esthetic souls. They embody the 
idea, the sentiment, the attitude, the emotions re- 
flected upon form and countenance. They know far 
more and do far more towards expressing character 
than other men. For this reason, then, we go to 
their w6rks for help in our study of man. Under all 
the absorbing interest of Art, beyond all its toil, we 
find subtle truths of psychology which force us into 



12 GENTLEFOLKS. 

contemplation of the original of Art, — of Nature her- 
self. 

The face ! What more than this shows the effect of 
culture? Every thought, every feeling, every action, 
leaves its trace, and eventually stamps it as belong- 
ing to a distinct class. There may be contradiction, 
inconsistency, many varied shades of goodness or bad- 
ness in the same face. Yet, the predominant tend- 
ency of the individual is clearly interlined, legible to 
the most casual observer. A face is an epitome of 
character. Among well-bred people, the plainest of 
features acquire a benevolence which conciliates, a 
dignity which compels deference, a force which exacts 
respect. 

The brow gives the effect of breadth, calmness, re- 
flection. It has its phases of displeasure, indignation, 
trouble — but they disappear with the exciting causes. 
Such phases, being occasional, not habitual, do not 
imprint the frown or the scowl which awakens sus- 
picion, fear, repulsion. 

The eye is clear, observant, but unobtrusive. It 
sees all within range — countless grades of beauty and 
deformity — yet without abusing its penetration by 
even a semblance of inquisition. In ordinary world- 
intercourse its strength is veiled ; its rays are only 
those of kindness, courtesy, charity, sympathy, tol-er- 
ance. But upon special occasions it can speak elo- 
quently of confidence, love, joy; of mistrust, dislike, 
pain. It can attract or repulse, inspire or subdue, 
melt with tenderness or burn with passion. 

The mouth, too, means far more than rosy, well-cut, 
or classic. Whoever does not know the subtle delight 
of reading character on cultured lips loses that which 



GENTLEFOLKS. 1 3 

no book, no science, no art, can replace. Such lips 
make language the most vital and diversified of social 
arts. Even in repose they interpret the inner self 
with clearer verdict than any written page could 
express. They are at once mobile and firm. They 
vary with every thought or emotion, yet repress 
every undue demonstration of opinion, desire, or 
imagination. 

They attract and yet control the object thus at- 
tracted. They are capable of giving forth all the 
chords of the soul, ranging from the sweetest strains 
of love to the angriest hissing of hatred. 

Culture develops many sides of character. There- 
fore the lips of the same individual may be capable of 
alternate trust and suspicion, assent and denial, like 
and dislike, buoyancy and gloom, deference and 
scorn. 

If once we have discovered the secret of com- 
muning with such lips, we can no more become 
enamored of a mere pretty mouth than of a statue 
or picture. 

Form and color are a primitive kind of beauty cal- 
culated to attract untutored tastes. In the child, in 
the youth or maiden, they seem sufficient for satisfac- 
tion. With growth of character, more is demanded. 
If we may have symmetry of form and agreeable color 
as an enclosure for the soul, we accept it gratefully. 
If we may choose one only, we take the gem without 
the fine setting. 

The nose, the chin, the ear ! Have these anything 
to say beyond their form ? Surely, e^^slaim many 
voices, these features cannot express character, any 
phase of breeding ! Yet who can listen to the Ian- 



14 GENTLEFOLKS. 

guage of daily life without being forcibly struck with 
the general belief in what those seemingly inanimate 
features say! 

One man says of another: 

"He has no chin ! No wonder he is so irresolute!" 

Or, of a woman: 

** Rather pretty, but with so little nose that we can- 
not in reason expect any force, any depth of character." 

Or, of ears ill shaped, or ill placed : 

"Nature means something by that blemish!" 

Who can deny that nose, chin, and ear have their 
own special expression, one which usually harmonizes 
with, and only occasionally contradicts, the other 
features ? Yet, when subjected to the general sway 
of culture their physical disproportion loses its un- 
sightliness. 

I would not assert that classic features are the 
special prerogative of Gentlefolks ; but that their priv- 
ilege is, to make features subordinate to character. 

Hands likewise tell their story. There is one hand 
which, in its very conformation, illustrates grace, 
beauty, tenderness. Another as plainly indicates 
awkwardness, rudeness, brutality. Or, there is the 
strong, decisive hand, sure of what it wants, prompt 
to seize and hold. Or, the weak, irresolute hand, 
kind always but sluggishly inactive. 

The custom of hand-shaking is not without due 
significance. To people of fine sensibilities the 
slightest touch of a strange hand reveals something 
of personalify. The energetic, the languid, the wiry, 
the laborious, the artistic, the inventive, the shrewd, 
the flaccid, the heartless hand — all give their key- 



GENTLEFOLKS. 



15 



note at the first touch. If we have ears to hear that 
note of warning, we need ask no questions. 

Hand-shaking is often a ceremony to be dreaded, 
so diverse are the grades of coarseness it reveals. 
Worst of all is the cold, inflexible, clammy touch of 
a selfish nature. Best of all is the warm, thrilling, 
life-giving touch of a generous soul. And this best 
of hands is found solely among men and women of 
good-breeding. There we must look for the hand 
which knows how to give the fitting greeting. Not 
that it is alike to all men. Heaven forbid such equal- 
ity ! But to each man it gives his due. From the 
humble dependant up to the cherished friend there is 
no cause for complaint, no suspicion of hauteur, no 
betrayal of trust or affection. 

Not merely in the greeting but in an infinite variety 
of services does the hand evince its deftness, its 
delicacy, its refinement. It may not always be true 
to itself. Indisposition of body or mind ; unwonted 
cares or anxieties ; the pressure of affairs or the ab- 
sorption of the intellect, may at times produce less 
skill, less warmth, less generosity in the hand. But 
judging as we would be judged, we take the average, 
not the one abnormal act or occasion. 

Mentally, Gentlefolks are superior to others. What- 
ever the actual calibre of their intellect, it receives 
the kind of training suited to its special work. It 
may not be able to invent a machine, to write a poem, 
to make a discovery in science. But it has the faculty 
of appreciation, of looking with respect at all men 
and at all women in their several positions, of doing 
them equal justice. It is cosmopolitan. It is broad. 



1 6 GENTLEFOLKS. 

liberal, helpful. It regards every other intellect, not 
as a rival, but as useful or ornamental in its special 
place. It knows human nature too well to expect 
good judgment among the masses: therefore en- 
courages every barrier which law deems best for 
restraining and guiding men. 

The facts, the impressions, the deductions forced 
upon the mind by a knowledge of society, cannot be 
averted. Gentlefolks approximate philosophers in one 
point : they accept the world as it is. 

Classes of men, grades of intellect, degrees of moral 
force — these are acknowledged as existing, as having 
always been, as being predestined to continue. The 
Why and the Wherefore of things may be deeply 
interesting to speculative minds ; but they in no 
way change the differences in men practically thrust 
before us. 

The one essential distinction of an intellect sub- 
jected to good-breeding, is its capacity to discrimi- 
nate. Good and bad, beautiful and ugly, virtuous and 
vicious, are not glibly discussed as if they were things 
of choice or purchase. They are regarded as inevi- 
table belongings of certain people, qualifications of 
their birth, circumstances, or opportunities. Nor does 
this faculty of observing the varied phases of society 
generate pride or self-righteousness. The same eye 
that notes imbecility of mind or vulgarity of manner, 
apprehends that causes produced those effects — causes 
for the most part wholly beyond the control of the 
individual. 

No merit can be attached to the possession of a 
clear mind. Nor can any reproach be adduced to 
one befogged by ignorance. Yet, to prevent admira- 



GENTLEFOLKS. 



U 



tion in the one case, or pity in the other, would be as 
impossible as unwise. 

The higher the spirit of the human animal, the 
greater the need of a close watch and a strong arm 
in its training. Perhaps one of the most curious facts 
of social life is the far more general appreciation of 
thorough-bred brutes than of thorough-bred human 
beings. 

The very lowest classes know the value of training 
applied to purely physical culture. The pugilist, the 
pedestrian, the oarsman, the acrobat, the rifleman — 
these appeal to their sympathies in proportion to skill 
and hardihood. Admiration carried to wild enthu- 
siasm often comes from the populace whenever the 
muscular hero of the day fulfils their expectations. 

In view of a physical contest, the utmost precaution 
attests the importance attached to preparation. What 
extreme care in the choice of a trainer 1 What vigi- 
lance over his charge ! What self-denial on the part 
of the individual in course of training! None too 
much, however. A single lapse of discipline damages 
the aspirant's chances, lessens the number of his ad- 
herents. Food, drink, sleep, exercise — these, in con- 
junction with native force, decide the probable chances 
for victory or defeat. 

But training as applicable to character, is to ple- 
beians an unknown science. To the next classes in 
social status it is a matter of words, seasons, prices. 
Only by aristocrats, the best of human kind, is train- 
ing recognized as the acme of civilization. 

Morally, Gentlefolks have advantages over others. 

Who would maintain the absurdity that people born 
amid poverty and vice are equally favored with people 



x8 GENTLEFOLKS. 

bom amid plenty and virtue? And the differences 
of outward life are accurately typified in the inward 
life. 

Gentlefolks are not of necessity eminent moralists. 
But they are from birth subjected to the restraints of 
moral training. They have good teachers, good as- 
sociations, good company. They are taught the great 
lesson of responsibility — its relations to their property, 
to their dependants, to their inferiors, to their equals. 
For the most part they are born with morality of na- 
tive soundness and subjected from birth to influences 
favorable for the growth of that miorality. 

The term moralist in itself is of slight importance. 
I form a code of morals consonant with mental per- 
ceptions, with calibre of conscience. Other people do 
the same. Savages, despots, plebeians, rogues — all 
have a code of morals which they are quick to apply 
to others if not to themselves. Before attaching un- 
due value, then, to the word moralist, it is well to 
know by what manner of man it is used. If genuine, 
morality is an outgrowth of reason and conscience, a 
result of reflection turned upon experience. It is an 
influence which urges a man to live out his conception 
of truth. It fills him with reverence for his own na- 
ture, for all men's natures. It reveals to him the Un- 
seen through the Seen. It makes him listen reverently, 
not only to one voice of Nature, but to many voices. 
From this influence spring the lofty aspirations, the 
noble deeds, the enduring works which animate human 
lives. 

The same man might, in the course of his career, 
give many diverse accounts of his moral condition. 
At one epoch a staunch adherent of the most cere- 



GENTLEFOLKS. 1 9 

monioLis of sects; at another, wholly indifferent to 
forms and emblems ; at another, willing to believe 
that germs of truth exist in all sects, ceremonies, 
and symbols. And so closely allied are the mental 
and moral states of being, that he may be alternately 
an idealist, a materialist, a practical worker, a phi- 
losopher. 

Morality seems as much a native growth of char- 
acter as intellect, as temperament. If so, it is then an 
absurdity to try to mould all men and women upon 
one set of ideas. The moral training which best suits 
the class or the individual surely proves the one con- 
sonant with reason. Do not all beings of average moral 
capacity wish to do well, to make the most of life, to 
carry out as far as may be their ideas of work, of love, 
of charity? Are we not like children, willing enough 
to be " good" if shown how to be so against the fearful 
odds of strong inclinations, prejudices, passions ? Are 
we not glad to be guarded from immorality if some- 
thing else be provided in its place? A moralist need 
abatQ nothing of his conviction or zeal because it is 
invested with gentleness. Dealing as fairly with other 
heads and hearts as with his own, he speedily arrives 
at the goal called Tolerance. To know that an im- 
moral act is as natural to one man as a moral one is 
to another, wholly disarms Judgment of bitterness and 
wrath. 

Without the checks of good-breeding a moralist 
continually treads upon his neighbor's rights — rights 
acquired through inherited conditions of mind and 
soul. To mean well towards others cannot justify our 
intrusion upon them at unseasonable hours, by dis- 
agreeable modes. Before we can expect our morality 



20 GENTLEFOLKS. 

to affect others in the least favorably, we must let it tes- 
tify to its intrinsic worth by its acting upon ourselves. 

Physique, Intellect, Morale — these, dexterously 
combined, make that all-potent magic called Manner. 

If of refined tastes, we are naturally repulsed by 
coarseness, wherever found. Bluntness of speech, un- 
couth ways, discourteous acts, produce marked pain- 
ful sensations which no effort of reasoning can dispel. 
Yet, if these sensations be made manifest by voice, 
eye, tongue, or gesture, are we not as much wanting in 
true delicacy as the offender himself? Indeed, more 
so. For in the one case there would be absolute 
ignorance of offence, in the other a full knowledge 
of its cause. 

Good manners often require us to endure positive 
suffering rather than wound the feelings of others, 
lose our possible influence over them, or rudely jar 
upon their prejudices. 

In asking a favor, I may possibly care little whether 
it be granted or not, but am strongly impressed by 
the manner of the reply. If it be courteous, denial is 
easily borne ; but if rude and bitter, philosophy itself 
offers no consolation. And it is very safe to assume 
that my manner affects others precisely in the same 
way. To assume grace, dignity, or gentleness, pro- 
duces a mannerism which justly draws upon us sar- 
casm or contempt. But to be habitually considerate 
of others' defects, faults, and opinions, is as great a 
virtue as curbing temper or restraining appetites. 

A vein of refinement in a family is a possession 
to be proud of It never appears in the same de- 
gree in different members. Sex, temperament, mental 



GENTLEFOLKS. 2 1 

capacity, accidental circumstances of care or neglect 
— :rthese bring about divers grades of the metal. But 
the essential qualities — these remain. Even covered 
over with a growth of degenerated character — say in 
either of the parents — it is still likely to appear again 
in son or daughter. 

Refinement can never be wholly eradicated. Traces 
of it appear in most unlooked-for ways, in oddest 
places, in most unpromising exteriors. It appears ^xv 
the very threshold of a dwelling, in the dress of its 
owner, in his occupation, in his amusements. No 
word, no gesture, no action, is too trivial to be influ- 
enced by it. 

No, — Gentlefolks do not grow naturally. They are 
a product of culture, and this only in an advanced 
state of society. A new settlement in a wild country 
may show us good, hard-working, energetic people, 
but not — Gentlefolks. These can be produced only 
after the drudgery of frontier-life has subsided. What 
Mrs. Trollope once said of us might be applied to 
every newly-settled land: 

" No one will be disappointed w^io visits the coun- 
try, expecting to find no more than common sense 
might teach him to look for, namely, a vast continent, 
by far the greater part of which is still in the state in 
which nature left it, and a busy, bustling, industrious 
population, hacking and hewing their way through it." 

Good-Breeding is of slow growth. It comes of 
Thought, of Feeling, of Practice. 

Of people in general it might be said: 

They have not time to be well-bred or to make their 
children so. 

Toiling for very existence, who could expect them 
3 



22 GENTLEFOLKS. 

to know aught of the diverse strata in the human 
character which finally yield that valuable gem of 
society which no money can purchase — Refinement! 

Gentlefolks can never be plentiful in a community. 
The conditions of growth require too great an amount 
of care, of time, of culture, before marked character- 
istics appear. 

In viewing a noble group of trees, I do not impair 
admiration by minute inquiries as to dimension, shape, 
and utility of every separate tree. I take in the whole, 
give myself up fully to the thoughts and sentiments 
awakened. A special technical description would only 
mar the nobility expressed by the entire group. 

So, it seems to me, Gentlefolks are to be viewed. 
Without volition on their part, without effort, they hold 
a certain prominence in society. No two among them 
are alike. Their circumstances, appearance, attain- 
ments, influence — all are of varied form and effect. But 
as a class they merit respect, merit it because repre- 
senting the best-endowed, best-cultured among human 
beings. They show us of what delightful degrees of 
social culture men, women, and children are capable. 
They make us feel at ease. They awaken thought, sen- 
timent, emulation. They appeal through their very 
presence to the finer parts of our nature. Not only 
through their presence : even to hear them spoken 
of, to hear of their ways and acts, elevates the mind, 
refines the manner, provokes a spirit of gentleness. 

I know they are not exempt from weaknesses and 
follies. But they do not thrust them at me, do not 
describe them, do not vaunt them. Among legions 
of people who cross my path, I can know but a hand- 



GENTLEFOLKS. 



23 



ful intimately. Of the rest I know the exterior only. 
But in view of the multifarious social and business rela- 
tions which come to even the most unimportant of in- 
dividuals, that exterior is by no means a slight matter. 
It includes the diverse effects caused by cleanliness, 
slovenliness, politeness, incivility, modesty, impudence. 
It includes every expression of temper, every shade of 
manner, every form of grace, of awkwardness. 

I do not say that all of us can acquire good manners 
simply through beholding them in others. But I do 
believe that all of us can cultivate a far more agreeable 
way of saying and doing things than we now possess. 
The best forms of speech, the best modes of action, 
the best esthetic tastes — these are within reach of 
every one endowed with quick intelligence and fine 
intuitions. Many men — perhaps even more women — 
of plebeian birth astonish the world by their strikingly 
aristocratic bearing. Not that it has been easy of 
acquisition. It came only through close observation, 
exceeding care, unremitting watchfulness. But surely 
this ambition is quite as legitimate — in its way quite 
as useful even — as intellectual or moral eminence. 

Gentlefolks everywhere ! What do we not owe 
them ? With what profound gratitude do I not recall 
those known in bygone days ! With what infinite 
comfort do I not bask in the society of those to-day 
known to me ! What matters it where they live ? how 
they look? in what fashion clothed? to which ** set" 
in the community they belong? to which work they 
are pledged ? 

What I care for is themselves, the dear gentle folks 
who by their suavity and tenderness counteract the 



24 GENTLEFOLKS. 

crudity and acerbity of other people. I see that they 
are many-sided in their nature, capable of great ex- 
tremes of wisdom and folly. They do many strange, 
many unrighteous things. They often spend more 
money than they should; live in houses too fine; 
dress in clothes too costly; entertain too lavishly. 
They manifest very puerile weaknesses for books they 
do not read ; for pictures they do not look at; for por- 
celain and plate not made for use. They travel when, 
were it not for custom's sake, they would far rather 
stay at home. They yield to idleness when they ought 
to be industrious. They revel in luxury when mul- 
titudes around them are pining for want of simple 
necessities. They sometimes even let other people 
do their thinking. 

In brief, Gentlefolks, however superior, bear yet a 
striking family likeness to other folks in the persist- 
ency with which they strive to make life yield up its 
sweets and treasures. They are superior; but this by 
no means implies that they are of a different race, 
angelic in attributes, divine in deeds. With every 
earthly advantage, they yet prove conclusively that 
the present stage of human existence is not meant 
to be one of perfection. They are not uniformly con- 
sistent, not abstractly good, not absolutely faultless. 
They are then to be sought after, admired, loved, not 
because they are superhuman, but simply because 
they are so much more admirable and lovable than 
other human beings. 

Why be ashamed of our race because we discover 
that the best among us are not immaculate? Surely 
the sternest moralist among them all — whether in past 
or present — confesses that living a good life is far 



GENTLEFOLKS. 



25 



less easy than to write or preach about it — that, 
with every available safeguard and precaution, men 
and women continue to evince many traits perhaps 
in themselves very natural, but pronounced by the 
standard in vogue as reprehensible, base, or unholy ! 

Gentlefolks may join in the universal human chorus 
so quaintly interpreted by Burton: 

" We are not here as those angels, celestial powers 
and bodies, sun and moon, to finish our course with- 
out all offence, with such constancy, to continue for 
so many ages ; but subject to infirmities, miseries, in- 
terrupted, tossed and tumbled up and down, carried 
about with every small blast, often molested and dis- 
quieted upon each slender occasion, uncertain, brittle, 
and so is all that we trust unto." 

They may thus chant, and yet do it in a far less 
discordant tone than that of the untaught mass. 

Upon the whole. Gentlefolks have their full share of 
discomfort and chagrin. These are indeed inevitable 
penalties of quick intelligence and refined tastes. Such 
an organization makes pleasure and pain equally keen. 
Words, looks, acts, incidents, have power to produce 
varied degrees of peace or unrest, delight or torture. 
Gentlefolks, moreover, are not exempt from the hard, 
ugly facts of life. Bread must be earned or hunger 
endured. Misfortunes come trooping in when least 
expected, often through the ignorance or perversity 
of others. They must live outwardly as the laws 
and customs of their country require. In doing 
so they must mingle largely with people of every 
condition. And in this mingling for purposes of 
business, or benevolence, or expediency, they endure 



26 GENTLEFOLKS. 

the most onerous part. They must behold the human 
countenance in its myriad forms of distortion through 
passion and debased habits ; see the human form shorn 
of its symmetry and elasticity, doomed to plod, shuffle, 
crawl, sneak, or prowl ; hear the human voice bereft 
of every musical tone, degraded into an instrument 
which jars upon thought, racks sensibility, destroys 
the soul's harmony. 

It is not the artist only who possesses esthetic per- 
ceptions. Scattered among people of varied calibre 
and worldly position, we find those perceptions de- 
veloped to an extent which makes the demon of 
Ugliness a ceaseless source of misery. Especially so 
when that demon enters man or woman and reveals 
itself in manner, movement, speech, laughter. 

Plebeians might be called people possessed by the 
demon of Ugliness. They are stamped on face and 
form with that demon's seal. No disguise, however 
cunningly devised, can enable them to escape, their 
social doom. 

The Plebeian's walk is either unsteady, pompous, 
or plodding. His eye is feeble in outlook, sly in 
expression ; his lips the harbinger of every shade of 
shrewdness and vulgarity. His manner is now ab- 
solutely repulsive, now a base counterfeit of good- 
breeding. His conversation reveals himself in every 
sentence, every syllable. If he refer to people he 
knows or hears of, it is always in connection with the 
street they live in, the clothes they wear, the money 
they make or spend. His estimate of them is purely 
external. He cares nothing for their thoughts, their 
sentiments, their attainments. He regards them sim- 



GENTLEFOLKS. 2/ 

ply as a means of gratifying his senses, of furthering 
his ambition, of augmenting his heap of gold. 

Yet, seeing a certain social consideration attained 
by Gentlefolks, he deems it well occasionally to imi- 
tate them. This, of course, goes no further than the 
outer covering — the roof over his head, the garment 
he wears, the manner of speech. The motive which 
directs choice lacking, the imitation is obvious to 
every discerning eye. Honest worth, however plain, 
receives full measure of respect from the best judges 
of men ; but pretence, in any form, creates an aver- 
sion almost justifiable, wholly ineradicable. 

With what unfeigned amazement I often hear thanks 
expressed — thanks for favors received, but thanks 
wholly devoid of feeling and appreciation ! 

The other day Mrs. M. presented her maid Betty 
with a new article of dress, which was both useful and 
pretty. Of its kind, indeed, there was nothing better. 
Yet Betty, who works daily for a living, and certainly 
does not receive presents in superabundance, mani- 
fested neither surprise nor pleasure. She was as im- 
passive as if a bit of cake or fruit had been handed 
her. She said, " Thank you" — but in what a cold, 
inanimate tone ! Not a trace of recognition, either 
of the gift or of the kindness which prompted it! 

Betty is not cited as an uncommon specimen of 
plebeian. Many holding much higher positions in 
social life strongly resemble her. Giving thanks is 
as mudli a matter of good-breeding as a mode of 
salutation, of conferring a favor, of accepting apology. 
I may have no need of the gift presented to me, may 
see in it no value, no beauty; but, if churlish enough 



28 GENTLEFOLKS. 

to let these facts outweigh the idea of the giver, I 
stamp myself as a plebeian. To analyze the motives 
which precede and produce the gift would be purely 
absurd. No one living in and knowing the world 
would pretend that every gift he gives expresses his 
respect or affection for the recipient. 

Giving and receiving presents is simply one of our 
social customs. Like many others, it in no way holds 
us accountable for its specific worth. And who can 
doubt that it would be a senseless waste of comfort 
to try to abolish what certainly originated in good 
feeling, and which in many instances still continues 
its pleasing function ! 

To anticipate a friend's actual want or passing whim, 
and gratify it with as much taste as means and oppor- 
tunity permit, is one of the keen pleasures of life no 
one would willingly forego. The veriest trifle is often 
invested with a color and weight which affect our en- 
tire being. 

Apologizing! Is not this an acknowledged force 
in society? And can we over-estimate a thing which 
soothes the smart of physical agony? changes a flash 
of displeasure to a kindly smile? proves an antidote 
to the most venomous epithet? transforms a murder- 
ous purpose to an amicable extension of the hand? 
These and still more wonderful effects it can produce, 
but produce only when wielded by certain privileged 
people. A force becomes either beneficent or destruc- 
tive in proportion to the guiding intellect or hand. 
So apologizing, if awkwardly done, never fails to make 
both offence and offender appear blacker than before. 
Who cannot recall instances when an apology took 



GENTLEFOLKS. 



29 



the form of dire insult? — when but for the restraint 
of reason or charity it would have been promptly re- 
sented as such ! Coming from a torpid mind or from 
a nature coarse-grained and ill-bred, an apology is 
merely the imitation of a good thing. It is an in- 
tention rudely intimated ; a regret without feeling ; a 
show of sensibility. It gives words without meaning, 
smiles that are facial contortions, gestures that simu- 
late deprecation — all these with manifest reluctance, 
with unavoidable floundering. 

To make an apology is neither an easy task nor an 
agreeable one. And the reason is obvious enough. 
Is it not an open acknowledgment of ill-conduct? 
Whoever has cause to apologize frequently, is either 
thoughtless, ill-bred, or weak-willed. The act pub- 
lishes the fact. The more considerate of others, the 
more self-controlled we are, the less occasion for 
making public our selfishness or folly. 

Yet neither the family nor society can exist without 
this custom. The most gentle of Gentlefolks has 
human foibles and passions. He is liable to utter 
words he regrets, to commit the act which reason 
disapproves, which feeling repudiates. And from the 
dilemmas entailed by want of self-control. Apology 
alone can extricate him. The fact that ill-bred people 
do not know how to receive an apology, often makes 
the humiliation we submit to still more effective. To 
feel that our courtesy is thrown away induces greater 
care in guarding speech, temper, manner. 

Looking at society — not as the highest culture 
would fain have it, but at society as it is — we find 
that many customs puerile enough in themselves are 
yet indispensable for that mutual forbearance which 



30 GENTLEFOLKS. 

distinguishes gentlemen from savages. Quick minds 
cannot help forming opinions. Granted even that 
their deductions be correct: yet they are not on that 
score justified in thrusting them on minds of a lower 
grade or too undeveloped to understand. Nor are we 
ever justified in acting upon mere feeling or fancy or 
inclination when it affects others. 

The simple act of walking down the street without 
a hat would subject a man to a mild mob treatment, 
without in the least adding to his force of character. 
So with the laugh in a malapropos moment, the harm- 
less word or gesture in an unfitting place, the costume 
at variance with the occasion. The most insignificant 
sound, the barely perceptible sign, may create dislike, 
arouse hostile feeling. And, usually, the best people 
around us are the most easily ruffled by discourtesy, 
the most liable to be irritated by boorishness. 

Laughter! Is it not curious to note the degrees 
of temperament, thought, and passion that it por- 
trays? From its beaming and sparkling on the face 
of happy childhood to its grim sardonic aspect in 
unhappy maturity, are infinite varieties to interest 
the observer. Mirth, wit, joviality; mischief, malice, 
deviltry; the clear ringing sound of health and high 
spirits ; the grating tones and appalling shrieks of 
maniacs — do not all tell their tale of human nature? 
We remember a laugh like a face or a voice, derive 
comfort or annoyance from the memory. 

The frequent expression " It does me good to hear 
him laugh" has its counterbalance in the truth, per- 
haps oftener felt than spoken, "It frets me to hear 
him laugh." 



GENTLEFOLKS. 



3 



I am often tempted to wish Plebeians could not 
laugh — it is so fatally expressive. The echoes of two 
or three kinds are now ringing in my ears. 

People's looks are often far better than themselves ; 
as if Nature meant well, but human blundering had 
spoiled the thing. In many cases, then, if people could 
smile only — not laugh — the effect would be far less dis- 
agreeable. The illusion of liking them, albeit a purely 
external liking, might be kept up longer. But when a 
peal of laughter tells us in unmistakable tones precisely 
the nature of a man, what can we do? Nothing: we 
simply throw up our interest — sulk mentally — because 
the pleasing illusion is over. And the disenchantment 
is not of our own seeking. Are we not often surprised 
at the suddenness with which the nature of an entire 
stranger is made known ? vexed even at its clashing 
with what eye or imagination had shown? Recalling 
a group of fellow-travellers, I see one of gentlemanly 
appearance and sensible countenance. The voice is 
harsh in tone, but the accent being foreign may ac- 
count for this. One day I notice this man in conver- 
sation with others near, and hear him laugh. What! 
I exclaim mentally, can that gentle-looking man give 
vent to such a sound as that! A coarse-grained, 
unfeeling, cruel nature is revealed. After that, the 
utmost courtesy and keenest intelligence are over- 
shadowed by that revelation. Mingled with it is 
regret, for we are to journey together several days. 
Another of that group is a man holding a position of 
eminence in the religious world. In conversation I 
notice certain remarks which seem strangely out of 
place from such a quarter, seem lacking in depth, 
earnestness, delicacy. Still, I refrain from passing 



3 2 GEA' TLE FOLKS, 

judgment. I may be in an unfair mood, hasty, un- 
charitable. Knowing the man's rank and influence, 
I would fain believe there is something more than is 
apparent. But now comes the test — the Laugh. It 
happens at table. The conversation is general, and 
presently this laugh is heard — a prolonged, shallow, 
brainless sound, too convincing to be disregarded. 
Whatever doubts before existed are now instantly dis- 
pelled. Hereafter, whatever that man may say about 
himself or his influence, his personality is indelibly 
stamped with unfitness for his post. What strange 
accident placed him there — one of responsibility and 
distinction — I cannot tell. But this much is clear 
from that Laugh — a total absence of intellect and a 
full measure of triviality. Yet, had he known the 
effect, known how widely it separated him from the 
companionship of Gentlefolks, pride alone would have 
enabled him to check the unseemly mirth. 

One sentiment controls another sentiment, one pas- 
sion overcomes another passion. Once knozving the 
things best worth living for, every man compels one 
part of his nature to become subordinate to the other 
parts. The knozving the best is the chief end of all edu- 
cation. 

Aristocrat ! Why is this word so often one of re- 
proach ? This, too, from people quite capable of ap- 
preciating politeness and suavity of manner. 

Is it the word, merely, which has fallen into disre- 
pute ? Or is it something beneath which excites the 
sarcastic comment, the covert sneer, the open disre- 
spect ? 

" Mrs. So and So is too aristocratic for mc !" is an 



GENTLEFOLKS. 



33 



expression by no means laudatory of the lady alluded 
to. Any sensitive woman, indeed, would shrink from 
the imputation of coldness and hauteur conveyed in 
the word " aristocratic" thus used. But most of us 
find, sooner or later, that the opinions of our neigh- 
bors, cultured or otherwise, are worth considering. 
A rude form of speech often encloses an idea full of 
golden grains. 

Haughtiness often comes from want of imagination. 
Thu^, a woman accustomed to refinement resents rude 
manners, habits, or language because she cannot 
imagine that others may be wholly unlike herself 
She is not given to reflection, has seen nothing of the 
world beyond her owm narrow circle. Quite natural, 
then, that she should measure people she meets by 
her own standard. If they come up to it, she is pleased ; 
if they fall short, she is displeased. She does not, in 
reality, wish to hurt people's feelings ; she simply dis- 
likes gaucherie or vulgarity, and lacks the imaginative 
faculty which would enable her, quick as thought, to 
change places with the people who annoy her. Yet, 
if a woman appear haughty, whether to her equals or , 
to others, she will do well to amend that appearance. 
The ambition of a true aristocrat is to let manner be 
the exponent of self High-bred women all the world 
over are noted for their uniform graciousness of bear- 
ing. Nor is this a mere effect of easy fortune, good- 
temper, or other adventitious circumstance. High-bred 
women have very often keen wit, fine sensibilities, 
strong passions. And to keep these under control 
as their position requires, calls for no slight degree of 
character. In such women it is not only the faultless 
toilette, the fitting speech, the winning smile, the 

4 



34 GENTLEFOLKS. 

graceful movement. Behind all this is a something 
which makes the effect vivifying. There must be a 
high-bred spirit within to present the genuine high- 
bred woman. Can we conceive of any better means 
for the sound culture of society — whether in a village 
or in a city — than the presence of women animated by 
such a spirit? 

They exact obedience from subordinates, but so 
courteously that the exaction never chafes. They 
receive respect, not because of position or means, but 
because they are felt to be in themselves superior. 
They diffuse refinement from their personality, influ- 
ence those even who know nothing of the thing itself 
or its origin. Not that they can transform the people 
about them, make gentle-men out of rough men, gentle- 
women out of rude women. But they check the un- 
ruly social elements which otherwise would gain the 
ascendant, counteract the coarseness which renders 
even crime itself so much more brutal in results. 

Fashionable women ! What a contrast do these 
not present to aristocrats of pure metal ! Fashion 
often imitates — and cleverly, too — the semblance of 
gentle breeding. Yet this semblance is purely super- 
ficial: it evaporates instantaneously in presence of the 
original. A fashionable woman sometimes adorns, 
but rarely influences, never benefits, society. She ex- 
cites an admiration compounded of half-coldness half- 
curiosity. We give credit for good appearance, well- 
timed, carefully-framed speech, general self-possession 
— give credit, while all the time conscious of a moral 
chill which defies every attempt at comfort. 

Woman is a much more skilful imitator than man. 



GENTLEFOLKS. 



35 



In addition to services rendered by dress, which 
enable her in a measure to conceal physical imper- 
fections, she possesses countless indefinable methods 
of appearing what she is not. Not that she intends 
to dissemble, still less to deceive, to play false. It 
seems rather a consciousness of weakness, a trying to 
cover timidity with assurance, to keep out of sight 
natural feelings in obedience to stringent social laws. 
Many a woman of warm sensibilities grows into a 
cold, unattractive manner through the repression of 
herself made essential by her fears, her pride, her 
conventional modesty. 

Fashion exerts a far less despotic sway over men 
than over women. First of all, their enforced activity 
is a means of protection. This activity is not a nega- 
tive but a positive matter. If men do not act — act 
decidedly, vigorously — they fall. And nobody runs 
to pick them up, to soothe and sympathize with them. 
They fall, and must take the bruises, the hooting, the 
shame. 

Next, their physical and mental constitution. They 
have more strength, hence greater undertakings, 
greater freedom, broader views of life. Under aver- 
age conditions we seldom find men anxious about 
their social status. While ready to admit what is 
better than they themselves possess, they are not tor- 
mented by that restless spirit of emulation which too 
often destroys woman's peace. Men seem almost 
naturally to take a rational view of society, to accept 
their given place in it. They have excitement, risk, 
and. danger enough, disappointment and humiliation 
enough. But all these are in broader, deeper chan- 
nels, so that a half-century of average toil ajDpears to 



36 GENTLEFOLKS. 

have a less warping effect upon men than upon 
women. 

This in a general view. In a special one, instances 
are not wanting to prove that fashionable men are, in 
vapid aims and senseless deeds, fully up to the level 
of fashionable women. And for many obvious rea- 
sons their imitations and deceptions receive far less 
mercy at the hands of aristocrats. Infinite degrees 
of weakness and frivolity are excused in women 
which in men appear utterly inexcusable. Ornament 
of dress, for instance, may give a plebeian woman at 
least a pleasing appearance. Until she moves, or 
speaks, she seems of a higher grade than she is. But 
no device of costume can throw this glamour over 
masculine shoulders. Indeed, it often has a directly 
contrary effect, enhancing the very uncouthness it is 
meant to hide. 

Talking ! When to do it, how to do it, when not 
to do it? To learn this, I would consult, not books, 
not scholars, not fashion, but social aristocrats. They 
alone know how to divest the art of its dry mecha- 
nism, make it an ingenious device for the barter of 
wit, of sentiment, of experiences. Yet under all the 
graces of language lies a force which plans, elabor- 
ates, develops, and inspires all other minds within its 
sphere to lend their aid in the same cause. They 
never prose, preach, dogmatize, rail, or monopolize ; 
never expound opinions or feelings before a miscella- 
neous audience. They do not evince indiscriminate 
confidingness. Save when it is the right of spiritual 
guidance or friendship, struggles of the soul are not 
laid bare to other eyes. What they hope, what they 



GENTLEFOLKS. 



37 



fear, what they endure — these are scrupulously walled 
in, hidden from idle passers-by. They do not pro- 
claim their weaknesses, faults, or propensities, make 
the world their confessor. 

Argument — above all — they regard as a firebrand 
in social converse ; deem it the sure precursor of 
angry frowns, bitter words, unjust accusations. With 
a quick mind and a fiery heart, so much greater the 
danger. What jangles more harshly upon sensitive 
ears than two human voices vehemently^ — but vainly 
— insisting upon some trivial fact or pet theory being 
accepted ? 

Arguing is a contest of temperaments and brains. 
While it lasts, the parties are natural enemies. Each 
tries to circumvent or vanquish the other. Eye, ges- 
ture, words, accent, all testify to the inimical elements 
stirred to activity. Yet, for clever, keen-witted people, 
it is no easy matter to eschew argument. Provoca- 
tion comes with each new topic of discussion. The 
trap is always open for unwary feet, and recollection 
of its sharp grip seems no safeguard against a second 
seizure. What neither reason nor feeling can prevent, 
good-breeding effects. It banishes argument from so- 
ciety, restricts it to the tete-a-tete encounter between 
mental peers. Talking, however, is not to be abjured 
because arguing is disagreeable. 

Silence may or may not be a virtue. Like most 
other things, it is only relatively good or bad. Silence 
between friends is no more irksome than solitude. 
Mutual confidence, a thorough understanding of 
thought and sentiment, makes talking a matter not 
of time or place, but of spontaneity. But harmony 
does not come without preparation. As friendship 

4* 



38 



GENTLEFOLKS. 



means more than merely knowing people superficially, 
so the silence pertaining to friendship is preceded by 
free interchange of thought Silence between enemies 
gives eloquent testimony to its power of creating dis- 
comfort. 

Whether the feud be of a day or of years, one of 
its most effective weapons is the sullen silence which 
refuses either explanation or questioning, courtesy or 
reproach. 

Silence arises, too, from physical or psychological 
causes. Ignorance upon these points leaves the vic- 
tim wholly without means of defending himself from 
thoughtless prying. With self-knowledge come the 
invaluable weapons called gossip, chit-chat, repartee. 
Silence does not always mean inability to talk. It 
may be the mood of an hour, the result of a cloud 
upon brain or heart, the sign of susceptibility rudely 
handled. 

There are people constitutionally silent. For them 
it is as tiresome to talk as for others to restrain their 
tongues. Yet such a natural bias no more justifies 
taciturnity than love of money justifies miserliness. 
Culture is a sure means of modifying every defect. It 
develops in one direction, restrains in another, brings 
the whole under control. 

Silence when civility demands speech, is as un- 
pardonable a violation of social comfort as the pour- 
ing forth of private grievances into the ears of casual 
acquaintance. Silence upon festive occasions is also 
as incongruous as loquaciousness upon solemn ones. 
Talking and non-talking are at fitting times equally 
agreeable, equally effective. To learn the art of apply- 
ing them we may resort to every assistance society 



GENTLEFOLKS. 



39 



gives, and add to them whatever stock of reason and 
finesse Nature has granted us. 

Have we not each of us our own special outlook 
upon life, our own deductions, sensations, history? 
And in sharing these with others, is there not as 
much generosity as in sharing our tangible goods? 

Good Listening! Perhaps it would be difficult to 
define a passive virtue if we were not from time to 
time jarred upon by active viciousness. So with Lis- 
tening. Without the varieties social intercourse sub- 
jects us to, we could hardly appreciate the delicate 
pleasure arising from a good kind. I once knew a 
young woman living amid many of the elegancies of 
life, with access to the average social life of a large 
city. She had had every advantage of education, of 
travel, of easy circumstances, and in personal appear- 
ance could have no grudge against Nature. Yet she 
was not attractive ; she did not know the art of lis- 
tening. She talked well enough, but when her turn 
came to listen she instantly lost her footing. Her 
eyes wandered, seemed to scan the dress, the features, 
the antecedents, the present, and the probable future 
of her companion. 

She examined — she did not listen — a proceeding as 
out of place as discomforting. Could the best talker 
talk when under fire of a critical pair of eyes ? Im- 
possible ! He would either have a sudden attack of 
muteness, or in sheer desperation utter weak common- 
places until means of escape offered. 

A Good Listener looks — looks without staring — at 
the speaker. He gives a civil hearing, even if the 
thing spoken be not pleasing or interesting to himself. 



40 GENTLEFOLKS. 

He does not look round the room, at the walls, beyond 
the speaker into vacancy. He does not excite courtesy 
to rebellion by a distraction which a well-bred child 
blushes for, but which full-grown plebeians daily prac- 
tise without a tinge of compunction. His listening 
expresses respect for the speaker, deference for his 
personality, attention to his statements. This much is 
honestly given, irrespective of liking or not liking the 
speaker : it is simply an outgrowth of good manners 
due to himself 

Good Listening starts our best vein of talking, gives 
a fluency which is a pleasing surprise to ourselves. 
We are well aware of possessing no great facility of 
expression, no varied experiences, no brilliancy of 
ideas, no sparkling wit. Yet under that stimulus we 
find our tongues readily giving forth the best of which 
we are capable. This done, we are self-complacent, 
comfortable ; and with reason. Wishing to appear 
" our best," do " our best," be " our best," is quite as 
praiseworthy for grown-up folks as for children. 

Mr. A. is a friend of many years' standing, and 
our mutual regard is one of those pleasing certainties 
which require no asseveration. Yet I rarely pass an 
hour in his society without being painfully pricked 
by the briers of a cold phlegmatic manner. Put into 
words, it would sound something like this: 

I wish the fellow were more demonstrative! He is 
very good, and I like him; but he nevertheless vexes 
me greatly. And why? Because he lets me talk and 
talk, suggest and suggest — the more of it the better. 

Not that I begrudge my words: such as they are, 
they are willingly given. But I do like to see some 
sign of recognition, some indication of being heard. 



GENTLEFOLKS. 



41 



But here there is so Httle variation in countenance or 
manner that I wax impatient spite of myself. VitaHty 
of interest seems wasted. For Heaven's sake ! I 
ejaculate mentally, do evince some signs of hearing, 
something to revive my waning energy, something to 
prevent that mental yawning so fatal to conversation! 
Give me vigorous opposition, fault-finding, ridicule — 
anything, rather than languid acquiescence or heavy 
indifference ! 

Now, I am not so unreasonable as to expect Mr. A. 
to change at will — or to please me — a nature essen- 
tially averse to demonstration. But I do feel that 
consideration for others might enable him to qualify 
that constitutional inertia by at least a frank avowal 
of it and by an endeavor to acquire greater courtesy 
of listening. 

People do many things for practice. An actor acts, 
a reader reads, a singer sings, an orator declaims, 
for it: aspirants for excellence, they put forth their 
utmost skill not merely before a poor audience, but 
often before no audience at all. Why not then let 
talking and listening be done for study? To a few 
favored people it is natural to do both well ; but to 
the majority it is as unnatural as to dance with ease 
and grace without practice. 

What affectation ! cry sundry good honest voices. 
What affectation to make talking and listening an art! 

Perhaps it is. But no more so than most of the 
things civilized society demands. Art, science, good- 
breeding — indeed, the very rudiments of these — must 
be taught. Whatever we do well must once have 
been acquired by ourselves or by our progenitors — 
must once have been a species of affectation. The 



42 GENTLEFOLKS. 

great point is to affect things worthy of acquisition — 
noble arts, useful sciences, gentle manners; to learn as 
early in life as possible the distinctions between them 
and the contemptible imitations of them so thought- 
lessly accepted by the uneducated. Affectation of 
intelligence without respect for intelligence itself; 
affectation of politeness without appreciation of kind 
feeling as the source of politeness; affectation of elo- 
quence without knowing the exquisite delights arising 
from the human voice animated by a soul — these very 
justly bring down upon us the sting of ridicule, the 
lash of satire. 

Aristocrats! Surely there can be no more egre- 
gious error than to imagine the graces and refinements 
of life exclusively held by that class! No man, no 
woman who knows the world could fall into so great 
a fallacy ! Social history records the agreeable fact 
that whenever individuals are fitted by their person- 
ality for intercourse with *' best people" they are cor- 
dially welcomed into the charmed circle. Indeed, the 
class called Aristocracy — in which from its name and 
antecedents the best people oitgJit to be found — is apt 
to degenerate. Loop-holes occur here and there, loop- 
holes through which trains of vice and vulgarity are 
admitted. Families whose escutcheon was once spot- 
less see it blackened with the unworthiness of a mem- 
ber grown coarse, hard, cruel. Nobility receives an 
outrage which the commonalty must avenge. And 
this avenger often comes in the form of a plebeian, one 
born amid every worldly disadvantage, yet through 
character clothed with every attribute that commands 
our respect. He demonstrates the power of intellect 



GENTLEFOLKS. 43 

directed to culture, the possibility of gaining through 
steadfast energy the place of social consideration 
which to other men comes by right of birth. A 
self-made aristocrat is no more uncommon than a 
self-made scholar. In both cases character is the 
basis of the result. 

The Aristocrat of social life needs no pedigree ; he 
is everywhere welcomed for what he is. One of his 
most striking attributes is self-control. He is possibly 
very different from others in thought, in feeling, in 
mode of life ; but he does not make that difference 
ostentatiously public. He avoids even a semblance 
of oddity, of interference with or clashing with others. 
When in the world, he is in uniform and on duty. 
Only in private life does he permit the lounging atti- 
tude, the frank expression of opinion, the natural 
demonstration of feeling. Just as the greatest degree 
of social independence is attainable in a vast city, 
where people, for the most part, are too busy to in- 
quire into their neighbors' affairs, so aristocrats gain 
the greatest amount of individuality by conforming 
to social customs. 

The Plebeian of society is nothing without his ped- 
igree, his rent-roll, or his genius. He may repulse 
thorough-bred people by his uncouth bearing, his 
slovenly attire, his brusque or bearish manners. Yet, 
recognizing the power the Plebeian accidentally repre- 
sents, they stifle their repulsion, force themselves into 
gentleness and tolerance. 

And such conduct is not dissimulation, not hypoc- 
risy: it is one of the conditions which hold -society 
together. Without it, there would be instant social 
anarchy, speedy dissolution of all the refinements now 



44 GENTLEFOLKS. 

so justly prized. Yet, while admitting this, who among 
aristocrats would not fervently cry: 

If my companion have but one special quality, let 
it, in the name of comfort, be good-breeding ! With 
that, privation of the bitterest kind may be patiently 
endured, calamity itself be shorn of its cruel fangs. 
Without that, the most luxurious appurtenances yield 
no satisfaction, the brilliancy of genius only a sop to 
pride, a tribute to vanity. 

Every country has its social aristocrats, with national 
traits strongly marked. And for very natural reasons, 
all men are disposed to regard with partiality those 
of their own country. I, for one, share this human 
prejudice. Granting willingly that people of good- 
breeding everywhere are on a social plane, I still 
prefer those of my own nationality. Doubtless the 
inhabitant of Europe, of Asia, or of Africa feels pre* 
cisely the same preference. And is not the reason 
patent enough ? 

To be thoroughly comfortable in society we must 
needs have a thorough knowledge of its customs, its 
modes of thinking and doing. And not the knowl- 
edge only, but the habit of doing the right thing with- 
out a shade of deliberation. Without this, we are ill 
at ease, because not sure of playing our part well. In 
our own country, such knowledge and habit are easier 
to acquire than in a foreign one. 

Well-bred children become aristocrats without 
knowing how. They are mercifully spared the re- 
bukes and humiliations which ill-bred children must 
pass through before becoming fit for good society. 
Even in a country where the language is the same 



GENTLEFOLKS. 45 

and the customs similar, social life presents an infi- 
nite variety of differences. To be ignorant of these, 
or to know them only by hearsay, prevents us from 
being entirely complacent. The expression " feeling 
at home" in a country, in a community, in a dwelling, 
means more than most of us are willing to admit. 

To be ''' at home" with people of intelligence and 
refinement implies very clearly that we ourselves must 
possess, if not those attributes, at least their germs. 
If we do not, we must of necessity feel ill at ease with 
them, and, if reasonable, be content to admire without 
envy. 

Aristocrats do not preserve the honors and privi- 
leges of their class without sagacity, without fortitude, 
without sacrifices. 

In every country — whatsoever the government — 
they are instinctively hated by plebeians. Incompe- 
tent to grasp the truth underlying the name, these 
give a contemptuous shrug and upon the slightest 
provocation — real or fancied — mutter: 

" Down with Aristocrats !" 

Ignorance begets vulgarity, prejudice, persecution. 

Yet, battling with these enemies as they do, from 
beginning to end, aristocrats are wholly free from per- 
sonal animosity. They fight against principles, not 
against men. If in the fray false opinions be formed, 
unhappy feelings engendered, innocent people made 
to suffer, these disastrous results are not to be laid at 
their door, but at the doors of sottishness and passion. 
Elevated by the adventitious fact of inheritance, as 
aristocrats usually are, I do not give admiration on 
that score. But, if they realize the trust embodied in 
their inheritance, live in accord with its benefits, pro- 



46 GENTLEFOLKS. 

mulgate the gentleness and refinement they believe in 
— tlien I yield unqualified homage. This because they 
do the best of which human nature is capable. They 
make no professions of superiority, insist upon no 
dogmas, rail against no class, ignore no facts. They 
do not expect good out of bad, thus making ideality 
a means of torture, but they idealize by force of deli 
cate sentiment the many painful realities about us. 



II. 
LOVERS OF NATURE. 



Lovers of Nature ! I have heard of them all my 
life without understanding, exactly, who and what 
they are. Still, like many other things not perfectly 
clear, the term awakens curiosity, sets me to think- 
ing. The two words — Lover, Nature — taken sepa- 
rately, seem simple enough. Lover, for instance, is 
one who is drawn to a particular object regardless 
of its intrinsic value, or of any personal benefit to be 
derived — whether to a woman, a child, a horse ; to 
science, art, mechanism; to a piece of porcelain, fur- 
niture, or coin. 

Nature ! This, too, signifies a variety of facts or 
effects, from the drop of rain or snow-flake, to the 
most heroic act or most devilish crime. 

Nature is often very beautiful, but just as often very 
ugly. She is alternately kind, harsh, calm, tempestu- 
ous, attractive, repellant. Nature is everywhere, means 
anything and all things, embraces every object within 
and beyond reach. 

Metaphysics are just as much Nature as the physi- 
cal sciences are. A man who can analyze the human 
mind and thread the labyrinths of the soul is on the 
same plane with the man who masters anatomy and 

47 



48 LOVERS OF NATURE. 

pathology : both are students of Nature, both to be 
respected in proportion to character. 

Gazing at a mountain in the distance, or climbing 
over its rugged sides — these are but different expres- 
sions of the same sentiment. The botanist loves Na- 
ture in one way; the geologist in another; the artist 
takes his share in a mode inexplicable to both ; the 
poet — in one mood clinging to earth, in another soar- 
ing to heaven — pours forth a strain so tender, so pas- 
sionate, that all mankind listens with bated breath. 

Yet before Nature can be loved at all there must be 
a capacity for loving. This implies mind to see and 
distinguish, heart to vibrate, strength to hold, devotion 
to cherish. A narrow mind cannot take broad views. 
A utilitarian has no day-dreams. A mechanician sees 
no beauty in the swift-flowing stream, no grandeur 
in the headlong cataract. A city belle regards the 
country as a place for mud or dust, for farmers, for 
cattle, for ennui. 

Simple-minded, illiterate people, bred in regions 
of natural beauty, stare open-mouthed at travellers 
coming great distances solely to behold the moun- 
tain, valley, or sea-coast which they all their lives have 
seen — without seeing. What to them is the sunrise ? 
the sunset? How do they define landscape, or forest, 
glade, and grotto ? Their definition is somewhat in 
this form : Nature means a place to live in ; some- 
thing to eat ; clothing for the body ; permission to 
do for ever what we were born and bred to do. 

Some people, who have known me many years, 
smile ironically, if I incidentally let fall words hinting 
at personal regard for Nature, and exclaim, "What! 
you care for Nature ! you who even in the country 



LOVERS OF NATURE. 49 

stay indoors often the whole day!" I bend low under 
the imputation, unable indeed to make any cogent 
defence. And still — in a vague, undefined way — I 
have after all a sort of understanding with Nature. 

If the perfume of a flower in a neighboring garden 
be wafted through my open window, my senses take 
in the sweet pleasure as heartily as if the flower were 
my own. If a bird flit across my vision, it receives 
from me a warm mental greeting ; if a passing cloud 
drop its message of beauty, it steels my ear to mun- 
dane sounds. If, on the street, the breeze come with 
bracing freshness, it spurs me on to quicker step, 
to higher hope, to stronger endurance ; if it come 
with balmy languor, it carries me to southern climes, 
with all their wealth of cloudless sky, luxuriant flora, 
restful idleness. Let a man of noble intellect come 
within my range, I grant him instant respect, cordial 
interest ; let a beautiful woman stir me to homage, 
I recognize the divine principle she embodies ; if a 
child thrill me with tenderness, or move me to self- 
sacrifice, I hear Nature speaking through the innocent 
eyes and pleading voice. If I do not ramble ofl" to 
distant scenes of beauty, it is only because of the 
abundance here within immediate reach ; often indeed 
this arouses more thought and feeling than can be con- 
veniently entertained. Not that I am always in the 
mood for appreciating Nature. When hard pressed 
by worldly cares, when forced into association with 
alien minds, I pass unnoticed those objects which in 
other moments cause pleasing emotions. 

Intimacy with Nature implies favorite seasons, 
special hours, chosen haunts for converse. 

Spring days ! How they make me long for the 



^O LOVERS OF NATURE. 

country ! — for the country anywhere away from fash- 
ionable suburbs, from highways, from parks, from 
trimmed trees, from conventional flower-beds ! away 
from railroads, from hotels, from business, from 
domestic routine ! away from the sight of sin and 
suffering which cannot be helped ! away from the 
weary forms and anxious faces daily passing and 
repassing ! 

In the country each day offers its special festival. 
A radiant morning after nocturnal showers — what 
sources of pleasure it opens ! Yesterday the earth 
was parched, panting, exhausted. To-day it is cool, 
fresh, rejuvenated. The air invigorates while it 
soothes; every breath inhaled sends a new current 
of life through the veins, empowering sense and spirit 
to act with tenfold force : suddenly all the earth is 
clothed with prismatic hues. It is an effect much re- 
sembling convalescence — that more complacent state 
than positive health, owing to a consciousness of re- 
newed vigor with exemption from ordinary responsi- 
bilities. The body, relieved of the disturbing cause, 
in a purer condition than during previous weeks or 
months, experiences a delicious sense of regeneration. 
Still gratitude — that peculiar phase of mind which 
always succeeds great anxiety, suspense, or physical 
pain — diffuses itself over the system and renders it 
susceptible to external life. 

Tender leaves and delicate blossoms are full of a 
new-born beauty. Happy songsters send forth their 
notes of rapture, and awaken a desire to know their 
form, name, and household ways. Joy seems their 
social element: whether in secluded nests or winging 
their way through space, they suggest lightness of 



LOVERS OF NATURE. 



51 



heart. Gazing at those marvellous evolutions which 
utterly baffle human mechanism, can I help regretting 
the loss of that child-faith which gave us wings in the 
next world ? 

Angels' wings ! Can any natural religion, any sci- 
entific facts, any philosophic deductions, wholly divest 
the imagination of so blissful an anticipation? 

Wishing full blessing out of spring days, I say to 
those near : 

Leave me, good friends. You are very dear to me 
now and always, but, before opening this book of 
mysteries, I must be in solitude. Your presence 
moves, claims, interests me, shivers Thought into 
countless irredeemable fragments. Even if congenial, 
as many of you are, is it likely that you should be 
attuned to Nature just when I am ? 

No ! To read her language aright, we must be 
alone; all our faculties must be strained to the utmost, 
centred upon herself If, haply, we bring to her altar 
more feeling than reason, more reverence than science, 
we need not therefore be abashed. Knowing many 
things is by no means synonymous with enjoying 
many things. 

A man may be profoundly versed in scientific lore 
while icy cold to Nature's charms ; may scan the 
heavens or fathom the ocean without deriving from 
either a single hour of delight. The physical sciences 
hold out promises richly laden with knowledge and 
satisfaction. Let the student delve into secrets of 
air, water, earth, firmament; let him pass days and 
nights of searching inquiry into those ever-new, ever- 
diversified, ever-solemn realities : but only under con- 
ditions let him do this. If, perchance, he feel more 



52 



LOVERS OF NATURE. 



at home in mental or moral regions; if these over- 
balance the other, surely there could be no scruple as 
to awarding the preference. Limits to human acqui- 
sition and advancement are thrust upon us so fre- 
quently, so urgently, that finally we see ourselves 
forced to abandon numerous projects which once 
seemed within easy range of an average lifetime. 

Solitude anywhere — but especially in the country — 
is a reliable test of individuality. If a child bring 
me armfuls of stones, of plants, of birds, of insects, 
I see in it indications of a future naturalist. Does 
he, on the contrary, wander dreamily along the river 
or through the forest, noting everything, handling 
nothing, I read the symptoms of a poetic or philo- 
sophic nature. 

If we can lose ourselves in revery at any chance 
moment of leisure ; if we prefer contemplation to ac- 
tivity; if we are more quickly touched by sentiment 
than by the glitter of gold; if under all the conditions 
of our lot we value soul more than sense, we need 
not fear the effect of Solitude. Who of this temper- 
ament does not know the mute ecstasy of plunging 
unrestrainedly into meditation ! of having a perfect 
reconciliation with the inner forces of his own nature! 

Whoever would appreciate home must travel — not 
once only, but often, unwillingly, in all sorts of com- 
pany, to all manner of places. 

Home, after that, seems a very paradise of repose, 
of privacy : petty domestic annoyances have lost their 
power to irritate. W^e are conscious of nothing save 
sensations of calm content. In the first flush of ar- 
riving home we fondly deem that never again can 



L O VERS OF NA Tl 'RE. 5 3 

a murmur of discontent pass our lips, a frown of 
vexation disfigure our brow. Revived in soul, we 
would gladly let the body remain indefinitely torpid. 

So, whoever would know the perfect flavor of 
spring days — of their power to invigorate and in- 
spire — must be prepared for them by previous months 
of labor, distraction, and turmoil in town. Solitude 
then is supreme content. 

"Very unsocial!" cry some. It sounds so, I admit ; 
but let me ask : 

Can any one change his temperament ? If not, can 
he be censured for giving his nature the nourishment 
it craves ? If one man is prostrated by what another 
finds strengthening, can he do aught to change a fact 
for which Nature, not he, is accountable? 

Why, then, trouble himself about it ? Let him 
rather take all the soul-supplies that come within 
lawful reach ; be seriously self-vexed only when he 
carelessly deviates from the course which insures pro- 
tection from the uniformity pressing from all quarters. 

Are those with whom we live the happier for our 
presence, for our sacrifices, or not? Does our think- 
ing appeal to, does our feeling correspond with, their 
own, or not ? 

Upon the honest answer to these questions depends 
the solitude we may or may not justly appropriate. 
Liking a thing is, of course, no justification for taking 
it if the act mar another's comfort or increase his 
burden : otherwise, " Liking" is an excellent reason 
for taking. 

People wholly dissimilar may yet live under the 
same roof peaceably enough. Take John and myself 



54 



LOVERS OF NATURE. 



— could there be a more striking contrast? He so 
regular, so methodical, in his daily actions, never 
swerving an inch from the well-trodden path ; and I 
so irregular, so spasmodic, never thinking, never feel- 
ing — even if doing — the same, from day to day, hardly, 
indeed, from hour to hour. Nevertheless, we live upon 
the whole very tranquilly, for neither interferes with 
the other. Some of our thoughts bear an odd sort of 
resemblance. It almost seems as if Nature had at first 
intended us to be alike, but afterwards changed her 
mind : too late to take out certain traits, her only re- 
source was to bring circumstances to bear upon them 
and produce different results. In him, for instance, 
imagination was repressed ; in me education favored 
its development; but when moral or philosophical 
questions come up there is usually a similarity of 
opinion. The one irreconcilable difference is Imagi- 
nation — its total absence in him, its continual pres- 
ence in me. Here we often clash, and I see clearly 
that such collisions are as natural as unavoidable. 
How, indeed, can strictly prosaic views and eminently 
imaginative ones agree? With him all must be utili- 
tarian, or it is naught. With me all must be tinged 
with ideality, or it is naught. Psychologically, then, 
we are and must ever remain asunder, while in daily 
life there need be neither discord nor dispute. 

To one thus practical, life means an endless unvary- 
ing routine ; the more closely that principle be fol- 
lowed, the better is he satisfied with himself. To the 
other — the imaginative one — life means a perpetual 
variety, a succession of changes, all so fraught with 
wonder and beauty that it appears treason to spend 
much time gazing at one special scene. Considering 



LOVERS OF NATURE. 



5S 



the things that attract, interest, and fascinate, an average 
lifetime is far too brief for appreciation of life's gifts. 

John and I together in the country, then — do you 
think we look at the same things ? experience the 
same sensations? By no means. Nothing, indeed, 
could be farther apart. Yet we go there occasionally 
in company, and amuse ourselves very well — each 
his own way. John inspects the crops, looks after the 
stock, calculates the quantity of vendible matter in 
garden, field, and orchard. He talks with the farmers 
and laborers ; he knows all about the soil, the drainage, 
the springs. He is interested in the planting and cul- 
tivation of things, can answer any question or make 
valuable suggestions about them. He tells the men 
what to do, how to do, when to do; he is looked upon 
with respect, consulted by everybody, is lord of the 
ground by right of knowledge. 

While I — well, I do none of those things. 

Summer brings me a fuller, deeper enjoyment than 
Spring. Nature is then more developed, more rich in 
color, more intense in warmth, more competent to 
minister to body and mind. What repose symbolized 
in the woods and rocj^s ! Always changing, yet 
always at heart calm, passionless ! What sparkle and 
coolness in the running brooks ! What more to wish 
for than permission to breathe the soft air, see these 
green fields, inhale this fragrance! Every day pre- 
sents new aspects, varied combinations of atmosphere, 
light and shadow. 

Sun, moon, stars, calm, hurricane, flood, electricity 
— all produce different states of mind and currents of 
feeling. At this season, more than at any other, I seem 



5 6 LOVERS OF NATURE. 

to understand Nature — at least her special message 
to myself. When disinclined to commune with her, I 
know the reason ; am not troubled by doubt as to 
waning affection. To know the felicity of summer 
days, let me have small ownership in the land that 
yields so many pleasures. Wondrous foliage, emerald 
lawns, carolling of birds — these give of their essence 
only to the mortal exempt from possession. Land- 
holders often live amid scenes of transcendent loveli- 
ness with no more conception of it than the cattle 
grazing in the field. Even people of poetic minds lose 
appreciation of country in proportion to their material 
interests there. Nature is coy and reticent with care- 
laden people whose position requires them to manage, 
to explain, to watch over, to provide for, to criticise. 
With minds preoccupied with responsibility we lose 
the faculty of enjoying. Thought and feeling are left 
to gather up what morsels they may in odd and 
weary moments. Who can dwell upon beauty or 
grandeur when energy has been drained by public 
interests or domestic paraphernalia? Who could pur- 
sue scientific investigation in hours liable to incessant 
interruption ? meditate upon abstract truth when beset 
by jarring material claims? - 

Summer months spent in taking care of things — 
things non-essential to comfort — is not this a satire 
upon Love of Nature? Yet this is not an uncommon 
mode of passing the summer. 

A country-seat is, in theory, a haven of rest sur- 
rounded with beauty. In reality, it means a multitude 
of wants, a succession of business transactions, an 
endless round of anxieties. The farm, the garden, 



LOVERS OF NATURE. 57 

the lawn, the orchard, the roads, the stables, the green- 
houses, the graperies ; the gardener, the gardener's as- 
sistants, the haymakers, the mechanics — these fall to 
the superintendence of the head of the family. While 
the dwelling, with its countless ramifications of servants, 
children, guests, actual needs, and imaginary duties, 
the daily visiting or receiving visits — these fall to the 
luckless woman who chances to be copartner in a 
country-seat. If, through a subordinate position in 
the family — say son, daughter, brother, or sister — we 
are personally absolved from direct accountability, we 
nevertheless share the burden through sympathy. 
Seeing, hearing, and comprehending an annoyance is 
almost as harassing as the thing itself. The intellect 
is not made of lead, nor the heart of stone; so that 
even when there is a lull m the domestic turbulence 
the attempt to enjoy becomes futile. We recall what 
has just taken place, anticipate what at any instant 
may be repeated: our entire being is agitated in 
unison with the general unrest. 

What a paradise! we cry, were it not for this in- 
cessant coming, going, and doing, which seem inevi- 
table in a numerous household ! Now and then comes 
an hour of repose, which tells us what life might be in 
a place like this were it not for the harrowing activity 
engendered by material needs. Perchance it is a frag- 
ment of an hour that comes to us ; we seek the farther- 
most corner from domestic sounds, where nothing 
meets the ear, save the gentle twittering of a bird 
or half-audible buzz of an insect. How we wish the 
fragment enlarged to a piece ! What delight in the 
bare thought of such moments prolonged to hours ! 

Why, indeed, should a Lover of Nature have fancy 
6 



58 



LOVERS OF NATURE. 



gardens, fountains, statues, any imitations of town 
luxury ? Surely he has enough to admire without 
consuming time and means in making miserable 
copies of her charms ! That he may the more enjoy 
these, he selects the plainest of houses, and grounds 
too limited to be counted by acres. If choice of situ- 
ation be possible, taste and judgment are permitted 
full range. To have lovely bits of landscape from 
every door and window is to have the full enjoyment 
of that which the noblest works of art can do no more 
than suggest. 

Twilight in midsummer! Does it not suggest cool- 
ness, dreaminess, repose? The heat throughout the 
long, garish day has been oppressive, a full breath im- 
possible. If in town, you "seem to walk through val- 
leys of burning bricks." If in the country, you wonder 
why people must wear clothes, why cook, why sweep, 
why sew : why dig, plant, harrow, weed, or make hay. 
Why do any of these things, when to do them re- 
quires a supreme" effort of will, a sacrifice of the last- 
remaining drops of vitality? But, with twilight comes 
a vivifying breeze to waft away inertia, to refresh lan- 
guid senses, to brace drooping spirits. 

Sitting under a favorite tree, you have leisure for 
the luxury of indolence ; you take it without so much 
as a murmur of protest. Delicious verdure all around 
and above ! Looking up, you see a labyrinthine 
bower which the birds know how to enjoy, if glad 
tones and brisk movements mean anything. Sitting 
here, thoughts come that come at no other hour. 
What if they are vague, desultory, flitting backwards 
and forwards without definable object ! Enough that 



LOVERS OF NATURE. 59 

they fill you with peace, lift you temporarily above 
the strife and confusion of worldliness, make you 
forget its vexing contrarieties which so clash with 
tranquillity! You lose yourself in the semi-volup- 
tuous sensations induced by waning light, balmy at- 
mosphere, relaxed thinking. To-Day is over. To- 
Morrow is too far off, too -uncertain, to claim fixed 
purpose. 

Perchance the day just gone has been one of con- 
tinuous physical activity, leaving a fatigue which 
mars the loveliest scene and produces shades of de- 
spondency. Where are the brilliant aspirations that 
saluted you upon awaking that very morning? Where 
the ideas and fancies that flitted through the brain ? 
They are gone ! Could it be otherwise with a faculty 
so impressionable, so subtle as Thought, subjected to 
ceaseless busy affairs ? 

Twilight is a fitting hour for the idealist. Easy 
then to plan work, to moralize over past failure, to 
theorize success, to imagine fruition of hope, to heed 
the keen conviction of his unfitness for practical 
affairs ! Airy shapes come trooping through the mind 
in fantastic array: how they mock and gibe as they 
note the outstretched hand, hear the entreating tones 
of a recreant idealist — one who has been vainly trying 
to live a realistic life ! 

A favorite tree grows into the affections. Lounging 
under its spreading branches, gazing abstractedly into 
chaos, you know moments of conscious happiness. 
Not a being within sight — not a sound save the 
chirping of birds, the humming of insects, the rustling 
of leaves. You know it cannot last long, this twilight 
solitude; busy human rights thrust their petitions 



6o LOVERS OF NATURE. 

into the very heart of repose. But while it lasts let 
your lips revel in the nectar presented to them. Not 
as easy as it seems. Youth is too eager to get the 
full sweetness out of life : it plucks the fruit before 
it is ripe, disdains the present, while passionately 
longing for a future that never comes — never comes 
in the wished-for guise. Maturity profits by what 
has gone before ; it holds the balance of Anticipation 
and Reality, which enables you to say : This — this 
Present now in my hands is the full-flavored wine of 
existence. 

Sweet twilight-hour, shared by Nature and your- 
self — is that what men call solitude ? Surely Nature 
is the rarest of companions ! Who else can so enter 
the heart of hearts? who listen so well to the con- 
fidences no human ear may hear? And whatever 
heresy be spoken, there is never a ruffle or a frown, 
neither wonder nor displeasure, never impatience, 
never scorn. Patient, tender — even when her child is 
most wayward — she takes you in her arms and whis- 
pers the kindest consolations. In such moments the 
realization of life — life of sense, of thought, of feeling 
— is so keen that you half fear the end must be near. 
Can there be anything more than is now felt within ? 

Summer nights in the country ! Every one has his 
own remembrance or conception of what they bring. 

Lovers of Nature extract from a single one more 
poetic beauty, more pure joy, than others obtain in 
three months of nights. Have you, reader, ever 
tasted of that beauty, felt thrills of that joy? Have 
you stood with uncovered soul before the majestic 
heavens, awed by their serenity, their fitfulness, their 



L O VERS OF NA TORE. 6 1 

storm? Did they drive you within yourself as no 
other force could, drawing forth the avowal : I know 
nothing — I only feel, believe, hope everything! 

Immeasurable Space! unattainable Height! incon- 
ceivable Distance ! How comes it that I am not over- 
whelmed by the magnitude of Nature ? Surely it is 
Reason alone that saves me ! 

Is it cowardice to be afraid of thunder-storms ? If 
so, then I confess myself a coward. There are times 
when electricity in the air so oppresses me that every- 
thing save feeling is suspended. Talking, reading, 
sewing, idling — all become alike impossible. I wan- 
der about like one in somnambulism. Reason, pride, 
and self-respect are called upon : they help to preserve 
a semblance of calmness, but do not prevent an inner 
perturbation. Happily, constitutional fear, while never 
outgrown, may be gradually counteracted by reason. 
To experience terror without this controlling element 
is to be an abject slave cowering before a merciless 
master. To experience *terror with mental ability to 
discern its cause, is to be a slave who faces and knows 
himself superior to his master. 

Are there not people wholly devoid of fear ? who 
have no dread of accidents in travelling ? no anticipa- 
tion of fire or burglars at home ? who have no shrink- 
ing from the darkness ? never dream weird dreams ? 
have no horror of apparitions ? no belief in anything 
they cannot see or touch? There are such people; 
and they possess something for which Nature is to be 
thanked. But fearless people often omit this tribute: 
they claim the honor as if it resulted from their own 
superior force of character. As children, they show 
contempt for their timid companions: as adults, they 

6* 



62 LOVERS OF NATURE. 

entertain precisely the same sentiment hidden under 
polite phrases or a patronizing manner. 

Yet a timid person often extracts a strange, wild 
transport from the very centre of fear. A thunder- 
storm may then bring its inspiration to one physically 
unstrung by the warring elements. 

I recall one once witnessed in the country. It is 
late at night. Gazing from an upper window towards 
the west, everything above and below is of densest 
blackness. Gradually the eye grows accustomed to 
the blackness, and in the midst of it distinguishes 
the special cloud that is to discharge the celestial 
salvo. Directly above the horizon it lowers, and how 
full of wrath its visage ! As I gaze — half astonished 
at my own temerity — behold the first flash, a blaze of 
heavenly fire which well-nigh blinds me ! Intensity 
of light followed by instantaneous eclipse ! In a few 
seconds comes the thunder resounding from cloud to 
cloud in angry tones. To lose nothing, I lean forward 
from the open window, listening intently as they die 
away. Again utter blackness, supreme silence — again 
a display of fiery splendor, such as may hardly be twice 
beheld in a lifetime ! It is as if the firmament were 
violently rent asunder to show forth the power of the 
Unseen. Enthusiasm of soul is now at its highest 
pitch — fear is merged in adoration. 

Five times the transcendent spectacle is repeated, 
producing mingled admiration and terror never to be 
forgotten. Finally the storm-cloud approaches our 
own domicile. A forked flash simultaneous with a 
crashing peal drives me shrinking from my window- 
observatory — I feel in the presence of danger, scarcely 
dare draw a breath ! Yet, for having seen, for having 



LOVERS OF NATURE. ^^^ 

felt, for having appreciated, I am deeply grateful. I 
move about softly, reverently, as if a new and rare 
experience had been added to life. 

Who is a true Lover of Nature ? Is it not the best- 
endowed man living the least artificial life ? one who 
sees Nature not only in physical science or in poetic 
visions, but likewise in humanity? Such a man is 
not only a lover, but a favored lover. He holds the 
magic which penetrates Nature's reserve, draws forth 
her sweetness, subdues her moods, makes her very 
waywardness conduce to his delight. He alone ven- 
tures into her arcana without being overawed by them. 
While pleasingly bewildered by complexity, he knows 
the folly of attempting to unravel. At one moment 
radiant in sunbeams, at another frowning in storm, 
at still another tranquil in repose, she produces sen- 
sations which indelibly stamp her individuality. To 
reproduce those sensations at will would be as im- 
possible as to describe passions we are no longer 
capable of feeling. His love is with him at all times ; 
wherever he goes, whatever he sees, whatever he does, 
that inspiration fills his being. Other men marvel at 
his buoyancy, at his content; he knows, but cannot 
explain, its source. 

He craves the country, the ocean, the mountains, 
but desires gratification only under conditions. If 
summer holidays are to be passed amid a heteroge- 
neous crowd of hotel "guests," where clatter and 
show take the place of tranquillity and simplicity, he 
prefers greatly to pass those days at home, even if it 
be in town. Better, far better, a single week of abso- 
lute enjoyment in one of Nature's haunts than months 



46 



LOVERS OF NATURE. 



of factitious repose amid incongruous activities ! But 
he is not always privileged so to choose : he has 
family ties, must go with and for others, must give 
up his individual likings, adapt himself to ordinances 
of Fate : yet, doing this, he is none the less a true 
Lover. 

Lovers of Nature living in town. Is this a paradox? 
No more so than a lover of luxury living in penury; 
a lover of refinement in contact with vulgarity; a 
lover of intellect associating with ignorance ; a lover 
of beauty mated with ugliness, — and surely all these 
are often enough seen. 

Many things, good and bad, are said of a large 
town. Like noted men and women, it has not only 
two reputations — one public, the other private — 
but its own individuality, which none save intimates 
know anything about. Half the world's knowledge is 
" Hearsay," nothing more. If a man have never lived 
in a large town, he knows nothing definite, nothing 
reliable, as to its effect upon himself. " Hearsay" gives 
much as to general features, but the gist of personality 
can come solely from actual contact. 

To cursory observation, what is more prosaic than a 
vast, busy, prosperous town ? Its commerce, dwell- 
ings, public buildings, markets, schools, shops — these 
present so great a sameness that we are prompted to 
exclaim: 

Could any Lover of Nature pitch his tent there? 

But here, as elsewhere, " cursory observation" sees 
only the surface of things ; going deeper, it is found 
that the most ardent Lovers of Nature are town-bred 
people. Town gives the teacher, the book, the scien- 



LOVERS OF NATURE. 65 

tific apparatus — without these who could fully appre- 
ciate Nature? Town is the seat of learning, wealth, 
ambition, philanthropy, social intercourse — all these 
find greater scope there than in the country. Country 
is the place for digesting the mental stores procured 
in town. No scholar when young and vigorous would 
dream of living in the country : no scholar when de- 
clining in physical strength would by preference live 
in town. Youth seeks excitement, variety : Age seeks 
tranquillity, sameness. What the first calls stagnation, 
the second calls rest. 

Just as people make romance, — not places, cos- 
tumes, or events, — so well-rounded characters — men 
and women with knowledge drilled into and made a 
part of themselves — make the best appreciators of 
Nature. In town. Humanity, with its brilliant lights 
and dark shadows, is spread before the mind; each 
individual fills a place, serves a purpose. If on one 
side are ignorance, vice, suffering; on the other side 
are enlightenment, virtue, happiness. Seeing both 
sides produces not only twofold sympathy, but sets 
forth the possibilities for development existing in 
both. 

Living in town stimulates the imaginative facwlty, 
giving a facility of invention which indemnifies for the 
absence of real objects. Having once beheld green 
fields, solemn forests, mountain, valley, lake — makes 
them a possession for all time, one capable of yield- 
ing its delights amid the very heart of material occu- 
pations. They form a series of pictures in the mind, 
each one holding its own place as to artistic merit or 
historic interest. An imaginative person who has 
travelled much, often finds his mind over-crowded with 



66 LOVERS OF NATURE. 

pictures. He values them all, would fain give every- 
one a good place in his gallery ; but soon, recognizing 
the impossibility of doing this, he grows apparently 
careless as to their disposition. The treasures are his 
by right of possession, by right of appreciation; what 
matters it, then, whether they hang on the wall, stand 
waiting in hall or antechamber, or remain in obscure 
corners ? 

Imagination is a Wishing-Cap donated to certain 
favored mortals at birth, and often preserved, with 
its magic potency unimpaired, up to extreme age. 
Whoever is thus singled out by Fortune might give 
testimony thus : 

Putting on this Cap I am no longer the sport of Cir- 
cumstance, but its master. I wish myself in whatso- 
ever corner of the earth I list; call before me forms 
of beauty, grace, witchery; place myself in instan- 
taneous communication with best-loved friends. Not 
that it renders me impervious to icy blasts or burning 
rays or dangers of tempest. Nor does it shield me 
from the multitude of petty ills ensuing from utilita- 
rianism, ignorance, and selfishness. All these things 
come and are felt ; but in far less degree than if the 
Cap were not there. 

I do not forget that the care of this Cap is trouble- 
some, for it must always be borne about the person, 
yet never exposed to worldly elements. Touched by- 
Pride it loses its shape, no longer fits; Vanity makes 
it limp and colorless ; Ostentation renders it so heavy 
and comfortless that it would fain be got rid of at any 
price. To have it always serviceable, it must be under 
the incessant surveillance of Reason. Without this, it 
is a possession often so embarrassing as to render men 



LOVERS OF NATURE. 6/ 

wholly incapable of self-support. In short — even 
with Reason — it requires so many hard knocks and 
hazardous experiments before this wizard-cap works 
beneficently that it is perhaps lucky that the majority 
of mankind know it only by name. 



III. 
LETTER-WRITERS. 



Letters and notes — how they accumulate on one's 
table, in one's desk ! Left from year to year, what a 
curious pile of contemporary literature they make ! 
To me they represent so many different phases of real 
life as to be extremely interesting. I never like to de- 
stroy them — those even from indifferent people upon 
indifferent subjects — because they tell so many things 
otherwise not easily found out. 

Letter- Writing might be called one of the social arts. 
Yet it is not appreciation only which brings about any 
degree of excellence. A man may love music, yet be 
himself no musician; may be a moralist, yet be very 
immoral ; know what a good letter is, without being 
himself able to produce one. 

There are men of superb presence who cannot in- 
dite a note of ten lines without proclaiming them- 
selves grossly illiterate ; there are women of radiant 
beauty who shrink from writing a simple sentence as 
from an abstruse problem ; others again study the art 
when children, only to drop it when adults. By a few, 
of both sexes, it has been carried to so great a perfec- 
tion as to give delight to many successive generations. 
There is a strong tendency in the present age to 
depreciate Letter-Writing. 
6S 



LETTER- WRITERS. 



69 



" Of what use ?" cries the spirit of Utilitarianism. 
"I have steam, electricity, commerce, and agricul- 
ture; I see our country growing in extent, wealth, 
and power. Are not these enough ?" 

"Yes — more than enough!" retorts the spirit of 
Beauty. "I grant you all your strength and influence; 
would do nothing to check your growth. But I, too, 
have my rightful place in the empire ; one from which 
you cannot justly exclude me. If you ignore this 
right, you will see how courageously I can defend 
my birthright!" 

Letter-Writing in its mechanical sense is on a level 
with music, painting, sculpture. It is not the well- 
executed object, but the unseen force behind the 
execution which moves us to admiration. 

To write good letters, then, something more than 
penmanship, grammar, construction, and practice is 
needful ; reason, sentiment, tact, grace — above all, 
enthusiasm — these must utilize the others. A letter 
cannot be good — ^judging it as a work of art — unless 
it interpret a portion of the writer's self. Whatever 
acquaintance we have with a man from seeing and hear- 
ing, it is extremely superficial compared to the impres- 
sion obtained from a single letter he writes to an inti- 
mate friend. Before the world, a man is clothed with 
reserve, with caution, with the formality essential to 
self-defence. In a private letter he is in mental disha- 
bille ; he speaks his honest sentiments, whether weak 
or strong, good or bad. We are at liberty to love, to 
hate, or to be indifferent; but we have the satisfaction 
of knowing exactly how we stand towards him. 

There are people who say: "But, letters may be 
disguised. The writer may frame his sentiments with 

7 



yo LE TTER - WRITERS. 

a view to scrutiny : may profess patriotism while 
dallying with the enemy; simulate friendship while 
harboring enmity ; enlarge upon generosity while prac- 
tising meanness-; inculcate morality while wantonly 
outraging its doctrines." Granted : letters may, in- 
deed, be the very counterparts of hypocrisy ; but this 
much maybe said on the other side. Hypocrisy must 
be of superfine quality if it escape the penetrating eye 
of experience. Connoisseurs of men are not more 
likely to be deceived than connoisseurs of animals, 
of arts, of merchandise. They judge less by actual 
measurement, statement, or description, than by divers 
subtle modes unknown to the outside world. 

The chief value of letters as portraits of character 
is in the very impossibility of deception. Friends 
flatter us through partiality ; enemies detract from our 
best qualities ; people neutral in feeling can give at 
best but colorless portraits of us ; but we ourselves 
rarely fail in portraiture of self The ignorant, we may, 
if we choose, easily deceive ; but, strive as we may, 
in a letter, to produce an impression different from 
the character we know ourselves to be, it will fail 
utterly when read by a competent judge. Affectation 
of knowledge, of virtue, of elegance, of wit, of tender- 
ness — of anything — will be as quickly detected in a 
letter as in manner. 

Whatever is spurious is sure to be recognized at 
sight by the student of the specialty, whether it be 
in science or in character. Taking at random any 
series of letters, it is easy to form from them an exact 
semblance of the writer : good or bad, poetic or pro- 
saic, high- or low-bred, impulsive or deliberate, he is 
faithfully limned by his own hand. Having a number 



LE TTER - WRITERS. y I 

of letters of an individual we need no other biography. 
In early stages of character-study I believed each 
biographer's statement; later, I learned that each 
biographer forms and gives his own conclusions — 
that my own opinion, if of any value, must be formed 
mainly from letters. The active daily life of a man 
is one thing; the quiescent inner life another — and 
to me a far more interesting — thing. The activity 
without the thought makes many good citizens, many 
useful artisans, many industrious workmen, many well- 
drilled soldiers, — but will not make thinkers, poets, or 
scientists. 

Letters emanating from cultured minds are tran- 
scripts of character : but, for all save the favored con- 
fidant, these transcripts are invisible. Not until the 
writers themselves have passed away from this busy 
human hive are their life-records opened to general 
perusal. Nothing offers a more curious field for medi- 
tation than this certainty that many of the people now 
living and known to us only by name, appearance, or 
reputation, will to another generation be intimately 
known through their letters. 

To me it is a half-sad, half-vexing thought. I feel 
myself capable of so much reverence, so much affec- 
tion for people when they let me know their real 
selves, that I am continually regretting the non-know- 
ing which seems inevitable from present life. 

Destroying letters received from eminent persons 
is a species of vandalism nothing can palliate. Sev- 
eral distinguished men have frankly avowed this pro- 
pensity, adding their regret at having deprived the 
world of such invaluable records of character. 



72 LE TTER - WRITERS. 

Maria Edgeworth states that her father shortly 
before his death burned several thousands of letters, 
many from persons of great literary celebrity. His 
motive was fear of wounding or injuring the relatives 
of the writers. 

Sydney Smith vindicated immediate destruction of 
all letters received, upon the same plea. 

Sir Henry Holland excites in me absolute indigna- 
tion when he confesses that he has destroyed letters 
of habitual correspondents such as Hallam, Mack- 
intosh, Macaulay, Jeffrey, Lord Aberdeen, Lady Hol- 
land, Whewell, Herschel, Guizot, Everett, and others 
of later date. Eminent as physician, as traveller, as a 
social favorite. Sir H. Holland undoubtedly was: but 
his own words prove him no lover of literature. 

Whence arises the act which calls forth anathemas 
of regret from all students of human nature? I be- 
lieve that any one who destroys letters from distin- 
guished people must be deficient in three qualities: 
Reverence, Imagination, Sentiment. 

Reverence makes us esteem other characters — 
their thoughts, feelings, hopes, acts. Reverence 
makes the appreciative friend, the ardent lover, the 
hero-worshipper. 

Applied to literature, Reverence compels us to bow 
before other minds, hearts, and souls. If we do not 
acknowledge superiority — by no means essential to 
homage — we recognize possibilities of development 
which deeply stir us. 

Imagination adds so keen a zest to the appreciation 
of letters that we read not only what is actually writ- 
ten, but the train of thought and the mood which 
prompted the writing. 



LETTER- WRITERS. 



71 



Sentiment is to our psychological life what light, 
warmth, and color are to the senses. That it may 
become sickly is no more to be denied than that the 
body may become pampered. But in its healthful 
condition, it clothes us with that talismanic armor 
which enables us to engage in the fiercest warfare 
with utilitarianism, without forgetting the tolerance 
due to many of its disciples. 

Letter- Writing may be classified as follows : 
Business-Letters — Duty-Letters — Love-Letters — 
Friendship- Letters. 

Business-Letters are simply a formula. This once 
acquired, but a slight amount of mental ability is 
needed to produce a fair specimen. A business letter 
states facts, gives direction ; asks and answers ques- 
tions ; mentions plans, describes places ; discusses 
projects, suggests schemes. Drawn from the mind 
by material needs, it aims at conciseness, cultivates 
coldness, practises decorum. It is not a part of the 
writer himself; it is a part of the treatment incident 
to his affairs. None of us can escape the writing of 
such letters. To acquire the formula accurately and 
apply it with judgment brings us respect; if we omit 
the formula, or are careless in its application, we lose 
credit, our affairs fall into irreparable confusion. A 
clear brain of practical tendencies made agile by 
habits of promptness and repetition, disposes of 
business-letters without effort or discomfort. Far 
otherwise is it with a brain predisposed to poetry 
or metaphysics. The letter in this case becomes 
an incubus which neither reasoning nor remonstrance 
can remove. The recipient values its uses, knows it 

7* 



74 LETTER - WRITERS. 

must be answered : but, projecting is easier than ex- 
ecution. 

He shrinks from it shudderingly, broods over it 
morosely, postpones it indefinitely. Finally, goaded 
by moral shame, he closes with the enemy and com- 
pels will to do the part of muscle and training: this 
conflict is renewed every time a business-letter is 
exacted of him. The prosaic mind regards this fact 
as unpardonable puerility, as incurable shiftlessness. 
The poetic mind knows it to be a truth ineradicable, 
a misery unavoidable. Some minds have tendencies 
both plodding and vagrant : their main avenues are 
crossed with winding paths leading to no particular 
goal. They are too cosmopolitan to be patriotic, too 
general to be individual, too digressive to be definite. 

To achieve distinction in material affairs a man must 
train himself to esthetic stoicism. And why? Because 
to indulge in Meditation would frustrate every project 
of advancement; to lose himself in Revery would 
bring about endless practical follies ; to wander into 
the groves of Sentiment would render him incompe- 
tent to deal with hard facts, to devise clever business 
schemes. 

To achieve distinction in esthetic fields a man toils 
incessantly to ignore utilitarianism. He closes his 
eyes to unsightliness, shuts his ears to discord, diverts 
his thoughts from material ends. Escape these hin- 
drances to his development he cannot entirely — he 
and his must live; but he learns to blunt the edge of 
their destructive power by simplifying artificial wants, 
by dealing with them as with matters inimical to his 
life-aim. 

Duty- Letters ! Under this head come all that have 



LETTER- WRITERS. 



75 



been written under pressure, all that must be answered 
under pressure. 

Letters of congratulation, of condolence ; of re- 
quest, of apology, of presentation ; letters from rela- 
tives ; letters from acquaintances who feel urged, they 
" know not why, to write just a few lines" — these are 
some of the varieties which shake our faith in literary 
comfort as a state worth striving for. 

There is always a pile looking at us reproachfully, 
while suggesting all manner of set phrases and trite 
commonplaces. What a stupid animal I often seem 
to myself sitting here with a little sheet before me, 
and nothing — absolutely nothing — to be got out of 
my head save a few bare facts ! Each line is dragged 
forth by an effort of will, and when there, is so un- 
gainly that my first impulse is to destroy and put out 
of sight. But how can I ? Here is one to ** My dear 
A." — one of the best of women, ready at all times 
to render any service to me or other members of the 
family. She wrote to me — I am very sure — only for 
duty's sake; and having done so, I must, perforce, do 
the same thing from the same motive. So I finish 
my task and mail it, well aware that good A. will 
have no conception of the labor it cost, that she will 
simply wonder " why it is so short." 

Duty- Letters that come to us are as varied in char- 
acter as the people who write them : the responses we 
make are drawn from us by a compulsion which takes 
alternately the stern shape of respect, the mild one of 
affection, the neutral one of expediency. An extreme 
case of this Letter-Writing hangs over me like an 
ugly fact which can neither be ignored nor evaded. 
Its fabrication is so onerous that the most insipid re- 



76 LETTER - WRITERS. 

marks are evoked only by strenuous exertion. It is a 
task as wearisome as reading aloud to one whose face 
reflects no glimmer of appreciation, whether of matter 
or style. It is not the penning of thoughts which 
fatigues : it is the telling them to a doubtful listener. 

There have been times when, goaded by the rude 
staring of such a letter on my table, I have written 
an answer strangely unlike the one required. Called 
upon to judge its quality, I should be the first to pro- 
nounce sentence of " conventional, superficial, coldly 
conscientious." And why not? Ability to hold a pen 
and construct sentences does not assume that we can 
draw at will upon the Self that sways the pen. 

Family correspondence often gives a vivid illustra- 
tion of the Duty-Letter. 

Who does not love his own family? Do we not 
all say, or think, or persuade ourselves that we do ? 
What if we see glaring imperfections in those nearest 
us, if we are harassed by ever-recurring folly, humil- 
iated by never-amended ignorance, repulsed by coarse 
tastes, jaded by querulousness ! 

Even then — or under still harder discipline — the 
bonds so securely tied by Nature are not easily cut 
asunder; and if they could be, we should, in most 
cases, want to join them again. The mere custom 
of living together unconsciously rivets our affections. 
If a misfortune befall one member of a household, 
how quickly the current of sympathy stirs every other 
member ! This love for kindred grows mainly out 
of association, out of similarity of risks and occur- 
rences. We dare not be supercritical where health 
and sickness, joy and pain, are so constantly inter- 
mingling. 



LE TTER - WRITERS. yy 

"But," cries the sensitive soul, "they are so dif- 
ferent from myself— they will not listen, they cannot 
understand me! Their tempers and exactions goad 
me into ebullitions which transform my real self! I 
cannot be the same with them as with other people !" 

And who can reproach the sensitive soul for its out- 
burst of sensibility? Is not affinity of temperament 
between members of the same family the rarest of 
exceptions ? 

Father and daughter may be too much alike in 
temperament, too unlike in training, to live together 
in harmony. What to the father appears a wilful spirit 
of contradiction, is, possibly, but an expression of in- 
dividuality inherited direct from himself. A mother 
may accuse a son of irritability, conceit, domineering 
temper, when, in truth, those traits had their origin 
in her own injudicious treatment. So in brother and 
sister— all the elements for affectionate intercourse 
may exist, while the skill for directing them may be 
wanting. This often accounts for the seeming anomaly 
of a young person — of either sex — being warmly loved 
by friends, while coldly regarded in the family circle. 

But when members of a family are psychologically 
related their letters become types of the noblest in- 
tercourse. Parent and child, brother and sister, may 
then gro\^j into a communion so close that none of 
the tumults of life can either impair its lustre or 
cool its ardor. They write as they would talk — un- 
reservedly—because sure of a good hearing. Entire 
trust in each other renders doubt of feeling or inten- 
tion impossible. Yet in their letters— as in their lives 
— they are not imperturbably calm, not uninterruptedly 
happy. Mutual attachment does not prevent a fre- 



78 



LE TTER - WRITERS. 



quent flashing of the eye, many a hasty retort, count- 
less impatient gestures. But, where saintship is not 
claimed on either side, clashing of interests only en- 
hances mutual sense of security. 

In such cases Family-Letters are not a tax, not a 
duty. 

A mother, for instance, amid many conflicting and 
pressing affairs, corresponds with a son. If writing 
could keep pace with her thoughts, doubtless every 
day would bear witness to deep affection rendered 
deeper by separation ; but even love for a child is 
permitted only limited demonstration. Possessing 
culture, this mother condenses her devotion into sen- 
tences which persuade gently, warn judiciously, lead 
tenderly. Such letters are not the product of leisure, 
but stolen from well-earned hours of rest. Her do- 
mestic role drains the greater portion of every day; 
conscientiousness alone enables her to make fitting 
response to the questionings and aspirations of the 
younger, untried soul. She remembers the weight 
of influence a single page may carry : a simple allu- 
sion, a bare fact, a pleasing image, a cogent reason, a 
striking comparison, a word of counsel, or a tone of 
sympathy — either of these may prove more helpful 
than pages of didactics. 

Love-Letters ! these certainly need no commentary. 
They tell their own story with a simplicity which out- 
weighs style and criticism. They are scintillations 
from the emotional system ; from their color and 
brilliancy we discover the component parts of that 
system. They pertain to special epochs of existence 
which can neither be produced by volition nor imitated 



LE TTER - WRITERS. yg 

by craft; once written, they remain as landmarks in 
the territory called Passion. They have the interest 
of historical records, foreshadowing events to come 
from events past. The inspiration of Love-Letters is 
the same in every age ; the differences in form and 
time may be traced in nationality and in phases of 
education. A laborer is no less strongly stirred by 
passion than the scholar, although his letters would 
hardly bear out the assertion. 

It is a fashion of flippant people to ridicule Love- 
Letters — to call them silly, weak, worthless, the re- 
minders of a condition to be blushed for as soon as 
escaped from, one to be promptly forgotten or ignored. 
They deny the power of a passion which they them- 
selves are incapable of experiencing. Others affected 
by it, they regard as actors in a drama which alter- 
nately amuses by its situations and vexes by its incon- 
sistencies. What they do not comprehend they hold 
in contempt; what they despise they flagellate with 
sneers and sarcasm ; or, these weapons not within 
reach, they pelt with vulgar abuse, with coarse jollity, 
with calumnious epithets. 

But, to people of earnest natures, Love-Letters 
never appear ridiculous. They read with soul-illu- 
mined eyes, discern tenderness embodied in repetition, 
passion couched in extravagance. They distinguish 
the modes of demonstration as influenced by climate, 
by custom, by temperament. They are not surprised 
at the apathetic coldness of a Swift, at the tropical 
fervor of a Heine, at the excessive sensibility of a 
Lespinasse. 

Love-Letters do not dwell exclusively upon the pas- 
sion which inspires them. Even where it attains its 



8o LETTER - WRITERS. 

supreme height there come episodes of calm, in which 
common facts are expressed in common language. 
Nothing in nature can be protracted beyond a fixed 
limit. Passion and sentiment then only share the 
universal law which prescribes beginning and end, 
with intervening fluctuations more or less vehement. 
Nor can passion, however absorbing, so envelop a 
man or woman as to conceal the actual character. 

There are people who maintain that Love and 
Friendship are in substance the same, the degree of 
ardor being the sole means of distinction. That 
there is a strong resemblance — often causing us to 
take one for the other — no one would deny. But 
who would assert that resemblance obliterates iden- 
tity? 

Love is not friendship : Friendship is not love : 
such seems to be the verdict of all who base judg- 
ment upon reality. Love has no antecedents : it sees, 
it adores, it craves. When disappointed, it pines : 
when denied, its raving is akin to madness. In 
mettle and endurance it is ci warrior iron-clad : in 
resistance it is an infant. It is higher than law, it is 
proof against remonstrance, it is wholly beyond the 
pale of argument. It plans and acts in the same 
instant, is heightened by obstacles, emboldened by 
opposition. When in full possession of its victim, it 
leaves him no middle course: he is either in a heaven 
of delight or in a hell of agony. 

To say that a mortal thus affected is not himself 
may be true — but not more so than his powerlessness 
to evade the spell. No man's biography would be 
complete were the episodes pertaining to this passion 
omitted. No woman has known the full meaning of 



LETTER - WRITERS. g I 

existence until her forces have been tested by the 
storm which may either revivify or blast. Where 
there is no susceptibility to Love, there is a lack of 
warmth in the character which affects the entire career. 
Life is only half lived, and that half is drudgery with- 
out the coloring of imagination. 

Let us now glance at Friendship. Here the atmos- 
phere is serener, the lights less lurid, the contrasts 
less startling. It touches the springs of tenderness, 
and through their bounteous outpouring gathers in 
a rich harvest of confidence, tranquillity, content. 
Without friendship life is dark, gloomy, depressing : 
vitality flows inward instead of outward, causing dis- 
astrous results. The child becomes unchildlike; the 
man morose ; the woman melancholy. With friend- 
ship, life is bright, buoyant, exhilarating. It soothes 
that ceaseless inner clamor for sympathy which is felt 
— even when not named — in the very earliest years of 
childhood. It embellishes manhood with force, with 
dignity, with gentleness. It adds to womanhood the 
encouragement and hope so urgently needed, per- 
meating every hour of every day with happiness. 

Friendship-Letters belong not merely to epochs of 
life but to its totality. Coming from poetic minds 
they shadow forth their most delicate characteristics, 
their deepest capacities. They are irregular in move- 
ment, fantastic in form ; brilliant in coloring, surprising 
in changes, fascinating in effects. We cannot decipher 
every enigma, do not admire every combination; but, 
we are under an enchantment so agreeable that we 
neither question nor cavil. No single word, no assem- 
blage of words, no burst of eloquence, can depict the 

S 



S2 LETTER - WRITERS. 

charm of this intercourse. It is a compact called 
Thinking Aloud, — one permitting full scope for re- 
creation with no under-current of waste or regret. 
It is a mental tete-a-tete with one whose personality 
is attuned to our own. 

The double correspondences of Schiller with Caro- 
line and Lottie, of Pope with the Blount sisters, of 
Walpole with Mary and Agnes Berry, strike me as 
unnatural. I can understand a man's loving — truly 
and ardently — two women at the same time. But I 
protest against the sacrilege of sentiment in thus 
writing to them in the same breath, in the same strain. 
The sisters were not alike in thought and feeling,^ — 
why treat them as if they were ? 

In very truth, I believe those letter-writers wrote 
ov\y for one, to one : the dual address was merely a 
kindness, a stroke of gallantry for the otJier. Who in 
anything, under any circumstances, — but especially in 
love or friendship, — can be perfectly honest, perfectly 
frank ? 

Friendship-Letters must be written when we are 
in a glow. Time, brain, feeling, — all these must be 
merged into the act which establishes mental rapport. 
Rambling, crude, desultory, our own or others' letters 
may seem, — but, if they satisfy the recipient, what 
more is needed? Is there any pleasure in being with 
people who talk because they fancy they owe it to 
themselves, or that it will gratify 7is ? Ten times No ! 
Under fire of such verbiage we wish ourselves leagues 
away. 

It is the same with letters : unless gratification 
ensue to both parties they are worse than useless, — 
they are the quintessence of eiumi. 



LE TTER - WRITERS. g ^ 

One glance, one word,— either of these between 
friend and friend, says more than a million strokes of 
the pen. But let separation deprive us of the sub- 
stance and we are well content to take the symbol. 
Separation is not necessarily of miles, of countries : 
it may be of walls, of streets, of custom, or of— 
that always-puzzling, never-solved problem — Circum- 
stances. If through the last-named, a letter often 
proves more satisfactory than a face-to-face meeting. 
Who would not rather forego a delight than partake of 
it in the presence of an inquisitor, a scoffer,a sneerer? 
Better a long postponement of an interview than have 
it under the restraint of irksome conditions : during 
the interval, letters serve as an ingenious contrivance 
for converse. 

The only counterpoise to the ever-recurring harass- 
ments of life is human fellowship. Not that it can 
stifle doubts, or prevent the wrangling of thoughts, 
desires, and actions for supremacy ! Not that it can 
blot out those days of conflict with realities which 
are and must be, but which are none the less exhaust- 
ing for that cruel decree ! Not that it can release us 
from those hours of suspense when Imagination con- 
jures up Protean fiends whose grasp we struggle in 
vain to elude! But, to have an ear ready for our 
confessions, a judgment upon which to lean, a dis- 
cretion we may safely trust,— these are the substance 
of endurance, and self-control. It is like passing 
through a painful ordeal, at the end of which a friend 
is waiting to receive us with outstretched hand, en- 
couraging smile, reassuring words. This fellowship 
diifuses around us an atmosphere of content which 
to others is inexplicable. It makes us amiable with 



84 



LETTER - WRITERS. 



the surly, patient with the perverse, tolerant with 
the bigoted. 

How little do those around us — even the nearest — 
suspect the occult agencies which affect our counte- 
nance, our manner, our actions ! And why attempt to 
enlighten them ? Enough, is it not, if they find us 
honest in affairs, charitable in judgment, courteous in 
conduct? Why permit the careless passer-by to set 
foot in the inner sanctuary, — to con those cabalistic 
signs which so perplex the priest himself? Thought 
is too awful, sentiment too ethereal, for visible em- 
bodiment. What we think in one hour could not be 
uttered in many days : what we feel in one instant 
would demand hours of toil even to trace: what we 
aspire to, exacts a lifetime of assiduity ere it takes a 
shade of color or an atom of consistency which re- 
sembles our dreams. 

"What do you write about? Where do you find 
news ?" are questions often put to the fluent letter- 
writer. He smiles at the puerile conception thus im- 
plied, and to his correspondent alludes to it somewhat 
in this tone : 

Do you, my friend, get much news from me ? Not 
the kind Gossip likes, truly ; you want, not what has 
been seen and heard, but things thought and felt by 
me. Can a more agreeable task be imagined than 
writing to one who is sure to be pleased, provided 
I speak of myself? who, whatever extravagant no- 
tion finds utterance here, knows precisely how to in- 
terpret it ? who is neither wearied by repetition nor 
irritated by contradiction? who requires no statistics 
of conduct, no explanatory clauses ? Here I may 



LE TTER - WRITERS. 



85 



be in turn prolix, taciturn, wilful, visionary; maybe 
unreliable, vexing, — everything save unfeeling and un- 
loving, — yet not forfeit my place. Here the soul may 
improvise at its own free will with the same sense of 
ease as in solitude. The chords have no beginning, 
no sequence, no ending ; they express simply a mood 
intelligible to the auditor who knows the instrument. 
Here I may unbend, expand, feel that sense of rest 
which comes of being understood; take the refined 
joy of being loved, — loved with every fault in full 
view ; give vent to the vagaries of individuality with- 
out fear of losing the respect and affection which 
make life so dear. 

Do friends who meet in chance hours know what 
they are going to talk about ? No ! whatever they 
say is spontaneous, frank, natural. So with their 
letters : every mood, from placid content to stormy 
passion, is unhesitatingly depicted. And what com- 
fort in the thought that even the worst mood will 
excite no uneasiness, no aversion ! 

You know that my grumbling of to-day may yield 
me merriment to-morrow ; the reticence of one hour 
in the next be converted into frankness ; that subtle- 
ties of imagination may make me appear cold in 
manner when warm in feeling, exacting when lenient, 
cruel when kind. My pen, too, is so stiff and untract- 
able as to create despair of intelligibility through 
these poor marks, often prompting me to say : 

Dear Confidant, expect no more writing, — not that 
interest is abating, — but the inadequacy of this kind 
of talking excites an impatience difficult to repress. 
Or, possibly, through some grave error of my own 
making I am in a mental purgatory: being there, shall 



86 LE TTER - WRITERS. 

I before you wear a bright smile, use a tone of suavity? 
No : a Confidant is one to whom we tell freely, gladly, 
what we should shrink from telling all others. Just 
as it feels to take a full long breath in the open air 
after being confined in-doors many hours, — so we are 
mentally revived after talking to one who intuitively 
believes in us. If he be engaged in similar pursuits 
we catch inspiration, just as the birds and the flowers 
know where to find sustenance, — catch it while yet 
knowing that the sacred fire that burns at our soul's 
centre must seek its own distinctive embodiment. 

How meagre a gift were your letter to me if the 
tangible part were all, — how rich since it recalls the 
experiences of friendship ! Held in this light it shows 
between the lines reiterated proofs of constancy, 
countless offices of tenderness, copious streams of 
sympathy. It reveals counsel in dilemmas, support 
under trials, indulgence for caprices. Whatever an- 
noyances beset me, there is an unfailing restorative 
in the letter which brings you so near and in such 
life-likeness. As I read, you are by my side, — you 
look, speak, listen, as if bodily present, — you are a 
second self, giving freely what that self would give 
if here. And are you not partially repaid for your 
pains by learning how hospitably I entertain this 
representative of yourself? by knowing that it shares 
the best I have, holding the right of free entrance to 
my audience-chamber? that it holds a place there 
which no other guest, however wise or great, dare 
occupy? 

What if at times your words express an irritation 
which makes me look up in surprise, — yet without 
alarm? May you not have been suddenly stung, — 



LETTER- WRITERS. 



87 



if so, readily pardoned for the cry which escapes 
your lips, for the reflection of pain on your counte- 
nance ? I remember of old how quickly you were 
roused,— but how quickly soothed again. A flash, a 
frown, a satirical fling, an indignant protest,— these 
were liable, at any instant, to come,^but sure to be 
speedily followed by rays of kindness and reassuring 
words. Reading your letters, I bear always in mind 
the atmospheric changes of that pleasant region called 
Friendship. Could we have those wondrous effects of 
cloud if the sky were permanently blue ? Do we not 
admire its dark shadows as well as its delicate tints or 
its gorgeous painting ? 

The friend I call mine was presented to me by Des- 
tiny : the moment of presentation decided whether I 
was or was not fitted for him. Having accepted the 
boon, the finest instincts, the most delicate discrimi- 
nation, the closest vigilance become conditions of its 
durability. I must bear my friend not only in mind, 
but in heart and in hand ; must use my feet, my eyes, 
my tongue for him ; must never lose sight of his in- 
terests, his wishes, his hopes. The concentration of 
all thinking and feeling upon him would but sym- 
bolize the impulse born of gratitude. Who would 
not yield the palm to him who lifts from life its 
heaviest burdens ? who rectifies its errors, shields it 
from danger, enhances its joys ? 

In early stages of friendship a letter impulsively 
written may cause days and nights of vexation. What 
spirit of mischief urged you to it,— having penned, to 
send it ? What would you not give to recall, change, 
or erase certain sentences ! Too late,— sealed, mailed, 



88 LETTER - WRTTERS. 

delivered, — is the refrain ever ringing through self- 
consciousness. What the actual result will be you 
cannot foresee, but the anticipation is damaging to 
ease of mind, — and with reason, for it may be the loss 
of a warm friend whom you warmly like, but who 
thinks of you now with just indignation or disdain. 
Under this weight of chagrin, no reading, no study, 
no scene of Nature even, has any attraction; the 
brows contract gloomily, the lines of the mouth are 
drawn down, the footsteps are heavy, the voice is 
listless, — the whole inner life is jarred upon, untuned. 
With sensibilities thus chafed, it seems as if never be- 
fore have you been tormented so many consecutive 
hours by so apparently trivial an act. Exhausted, 
finally, with miserable regrets and painful surmises, 
you ask yourself: 

Where is your boasted reason ? Granting even 
folly with its train of results, what right have you 
to harp upon it in this absurd manner? Are you not 
sufficiently punished, that you continue invective long 
after honest shrift? 

Gallant, trusty S. ! If he but knew how keenly 
deplored are those unlucky words — how unlike your 
real sentiments for him — he would, quickly come to 
your relief. You might write this, but you do not, — 
it would seem like begging back the good opinion 
your own act had forfeited, — you simply wait for the 
answer you dread. Several days — very long ones to 
you — elapse, each one filled with bitter foreboding. 
You begin to think you ought to avoid friendships, 
that they interfere with your life, with its develop- 
ment. You are not of cold temperament, therefore 
cannot take even pleasure quietly, calmly, as others 



LE TTER . WRITERS. 



89 



do ; you grow eager, impetuous, anxious over it. 
Stirred by friendship, then, you give up too much of 
yourself — of thought, feeh'ng, time — to it. 

At last your suspense is brought to an end. The 
expected letter comes, and you open it with a sort 
of grim satisfaction : better know the worst than be 
longer in uncertainty. In a few seconds the page 
is hurriedly scanned, and lo — the cloud of anxiety 
breaks, you see and feel the bright, genial sunshine. 
You breathe freely, are once more restored to equa- 
nimity. Spite of your thoughtlessness, S. is as true 
as steel. He never alludes to it, — on the contrary, 
seems actually pleased with the burden of the sup- 
posed mischievous letter. 

Ah — what a relief! Could it have been Imap-ina- 
tion that led you that breathless race of Possibilities ? 
Not wholly : you are well aware that save under 
unbalanced impulse the letter never could have been 
sent, — that to a less generous correspondent, it might 
easily have caused all the grievous results you feared. 



I -v. 
FOOLISH VIRGINS. 



They are of every age ; found in every class of 
society; they represent all the varied influences of 
ignorance, error, and idleness. Enough to glance at 
a few prominent types. 

Here is one born in the sovereignty of Fashion. 
She enters her teens with a thorough understanding 
of her personal value ; hair, eyes, figure, style, — these 
constitute the motive -power of existence. She is 
going to school when we first meet her. The fact 
is suggestive, and a few questions are ventured : the 
answers are prompt and to the point. 

Education, to her, is a something to be bought like 
a trousseau, the quality and variety dependent upon 
the purse of the buyer. She consents to go to school, 
— therefore believes she is being educated. Ignorant, 
and perfectly satisfied to remain so, she evades every 
task with a nonchalance impervious to reproach, in- 
capable of stimulant : she exemplifies finely the obsti- 
nacy of stupidity. So dogged a resistance does she 
offer to enlightenment that she brands upon her 
teacher sundry conclusions which partially indem- 
nify him for exhaustion. In one department only is 
there a vital interest — in that called Accomplishments. 
90 



FOOLISH VIRGINS. 



91 



These flimsy decorations she grasps at with avidity, 
deeming them essential to anticipated future triumphs. 
She plays on the piano with or without skill ; sings 
like a prima donna, — save that force and feeling are 
omitted; draws and paints, — not after Nature, — but 
with cold, lifeless mechanism ; dances with vigor and 
whatever of grace the trammels of costume permit; 
takes lessons in foreign languages under the com- 
fortable conviction that her masters are responsible 
for accent, grammar, and fluency. One year follows 
another in humdrum repetition until, finally, eman- 
cipation is jubilantly welcomed. Her education is 
" finished." Now let the delights of freedom flow in 
with unstinted measure ! 

In full bloom she is a specimen of human growth 
which excites amazement and pity in equal parts. 
Whence that leaden expression of countenance ? that 
significantly vapid giggle ? that contemptuous toss 
of the head ? that artificial manner ? that shallow 
meandering of words? Youth, health, prosperous 
surroundings, — ought not these to give elasticity 
of step, melody of voice, exuberant spirits ? They 
ought, — but here they do not. In the first flush of 
girlhood she is not girlish. 

The delicate tints natural to this young plant 
lacking, what is found in their place? First of all, 
clothing apparel in superfluity, and wholly regardless 
of connection between itself and the wearer. It is not 
a thing of degree, of modification, of adaptation : it is 
an absolute entity. The most incongruous models 
in or out of print are scrupulously copied only to 
produce discordant effects and pungent sarcasms. In 
full dress, for instance, she is decolletee a I'outrance, 



92 



FOOLISH VIRGINS. 



this even when totally deficient in the embonpoint 
which alone renders the mode justifiable. Could 
she hear the disparaging remarks of idle gazers, her 
self-love would receive a painful, but perhaps bene- 
ficial shock. "That skeleton, poor girl!" **Skin and 
bones !" — such is their refrain. And why not ? Surely, 
meagreness and angularity are the reverse of pleas- 
ing ! Why, then, in the name of Beauty, should she 
challenge public attention to those personal defects? 
Why voluntarily expose what otherwise would remain 
in seemly obscurity? But the girl is deaf to Beauty's 
appeal: she continues her whimsical metamorphoses 
until overthrown by exhaustion — physical or pecu- 
niary. 

Her actions are a transcript of her appearance. 
From the first glimmering of conscious thought her 
brain wrestles with the matrimonial problem called an 
** Establishment." Costly clothing, handsome house, 
stylish equipage, abundant jewelry, — these to her pit- 
eously-distorted nature represent the choicest blessings 
of marriage. Under this delusion she spends lavishly 
the candor and freshness of girlhood. To slake her 
thirst for finery, to satisfy her greed for ostentation, is 
the raging ambition of her diminutive soul. Failing 
to consummate her highest aim, she approximates her 
standard of bliss by accepting the weightiest purse 
offered by her suitors. 

The girl of Fashion has her puny imitator who, up 
to the extremest limits of capability, profits by her 
example. Such an one cannot see why the garment 
worn by the daughter of the millionaire should not 
be counterfeited by the daughter of the millionaire's 



FOOLISH VIRGINS. q3 

clerk. Upon this principle she drains the parental 
purse for cheap material and paltry ornaments. Next, 
she spends days and nights in constructing the coveted 
article she cannot afford to buy. Into this process 
she puts a furious energy : no laborer, no savant, no 
•inventor, no artist, ever worked more strenuously. 
How her arms ache ! How head and chest suffer ! 
How terribly nerves are strained ! But what of this ? 
With the hydra-headed labor before her she dare not 
rest. Its intricacies demand stringent application, its 
technicalities are the breath of life to her. 

If, perchance, she have a momentary perception of 
her spurious industry, her condition is still worse. 
Bodily exhaustion, mental chafing, moral chagrin, — 
these possess and torment her. If they burn in a 
warning which others of her sex tremble at, — per- 
haps profit by, — it is the utmost her existence can 
achieve. The garment completed, it is eagerly donned; 
but the end is missed. To those who know its origin 
she is an object of animadversion ; those who do not 
know, nod approval merely because the colors are false. 

A pretty girl ! Is not this something we all like ? 
No need to define form, features, or complexion ; that 
she is "pretty" is enough. Upon this we welcome 
her with warm predisposition to friendliness. Here 
is one just introduced, — but, alas, in less than five 
minutes anticipation is chilled. The inviting mouth 
has been unsealed only to give vent to a volubility 
which, upon a first acquaintance, is somewhat start- 
ling. How she rattles on, barely stopping for breath ! 
What a restless, uneasy sensation it produces! Where 
she has been, what doing, what going to do, what she 

9 



94 FOOLISH VIRGINS. 

thinks of this place, that place, places in general, what 
there is to look at, chaffer for, purchase, how she feels, 
does not feel, expects to feel, people she sees, knows, 
loves, hates, — all this is poured out in a thin shrill 
monotone to produce — what? 

From a child it would be amusing. But this is not 
a child ; it is a young girl possessing the gift of speech 
in so overpowering a degree that we wish her struck 
dumb. It is composed of sundry mongrel dialects of 
which the most jarring is called Chattering. How she 
acquired this, how she retains it, how she comes to like 
it, — she alone can explain ! Evidently, she glories in 
it, looks upon it as the chief attribute of youthful 
vivacity, a fitting accompaniment to bright eyes and 
round cheeks. We listen because we cannot escape ; 
are patient under the ordeal through force of courtesy ; 
give attention from self-respect, not from interest in 
the language falling about us. Amid the confusion 
of ideas excited by the motley gathering of sen- 
tences, we answer at random, at cross-purposes, at 
hap-hazard. Luckily, this is of no consequence : the 
girl, intent upon carrying her point, neither reads her 
listener's countenance nor suspects the misery she 
inflicts. 

She deals so lavishly in superlatives that no distinc- 
tion is perceptible between daily trifles and extraordi- 
nary events. A splintered vase and an earthquake call 
forth the same ejaculations of horror; the last ser- 
mon and the last opera go hand in hand; a woman's 
bonnet is placed on a level with her brain, the two 
commented upon with impartial eloquence. Men are 
either " splendid" or " hateful" in proportion to their 
appreciation of herself Everybody — old friend or to- 



FOOLISH VIRGINS. ^5 

day's acquaintance — is treated alike. All are recip- 
ients of the bits of gossip, the streaks of sentiment, 
and the dashes of prejudice which constitute the 
melange. 

Words gush forth until they run over and deluge 
the fact or narration. They are rash, inconsiderate, 
uncourteous words. They berate a child for doing 
childish things with an air of consummate justice; 
rasp a dependant's feelings with unabashed presump- 
tion ; purloin a good name or misconstrue a charitable 
deed with unflinching effrontery. They affirm, deny, 
contradict ; discuss, dogmatize, harangue ; vex, irri- 
tate, stab, — all with equal self-complacency. They 
know no restraint, no limit, no cessation. They rush 
headlong, scattering far and wide the jangling discord 
which devastates human sensibilities. 

Yet, — while thus suffering we are, forsooth, called 
upon to condone it because the offender is a " young 
and giddy girl !" But we refuse point-blank. We 
desire instant relief, and cannot stop to inquire into 
cause or motive. Roused by the tumult besieging 
our ears, we mentally stamp our feet and indignantly 
demand : 

What does this girl mean ? What does she want to 
tell? Where is the connection ? where the sequence? 
Is she devoid of common sense, intoxicated with glib- 
ness, possessed by extravaganza ? 

If the echo of our questioning chance to reach her, 
she smiles derisively at our callousness to youthful 
charms, and hastens on in search of fresh victims. 

Sensationalism, — this is the insignia of the next 
who arrests attention. She must set the world agog 



^6 FOOLISH VIRGINS, 

at whatever cost of manners or morals. To be gazed 
at, followed after, talked about, — these to her are syn- 
onymes of admiration. Beginning with her head 
and ending with her heels, she continually violates 
every natural grace, every acquired taste. Her mon- 
strosities of attire make plebeians stare, aristocrats 
shudder. Her presence sends esthetic shocks through 
all men and through all women not of her class. 
Deformity, not symmetry, — is the motto she dresses 
and lives by. 

To insure a full supply of the vulgar homage her 
nature craves, a succession of fantastic freaks must be 
devised. New sensations exact new excesses. What 
if her demonstrations are palpably gross ? Glaring 
color and loud tones are needful to attract the apa- 
thetic loungers whom she condescends to amuse. 
To this end the benighted girl so increases her dis- 
sipations that finally they scruple at nothing short 
of downright social ostracism. More than one act 
of deep-dyed levity illustrates the corroding conse- 
quences to her sex, of freedom ungoverned by reason, 
uninfluenced by delicacy, unchecked by barriers. 

She makes successive matrimonial engagements as 
lightly as if they meant a dance or a drive. She breaks 
them again with equal sang-froid, avowing boldly that 
she only wanted the flattery and the presents the tem- 
porary compact induced. She even deliberately enters 
matrimonial bonds intending to go out of them when- 
ever the whim so seizes her ; or, commits bigamy with 
all the audacity of an adventuress bent on notoriety. 
When, for either of these offences, the law claims its 
rights, she can make no stronger defence than the 
heedlessness of youth ! 



FOOLISH VIRGINS. gy 

The most anomalous fact in her career is an un- 
blushing claim to respect because of "Good Family"! 
Is, then, the world so to stultify itself as to yield hon- 
orable consideration at mere mention of a name, a 
clan, an ancestry ? To grant a girl license to violate 
social justice and yet retain her high position in the 
realm of girlhood ? The gods of Civilization forbid ! 
The world is too shrewd to be thus cajoled. It hears 
the name of the family, acknowledges the pedigree up 
to merit-mark, accepts gladly the intrinsic superiority 
it offers. Beyond this it declines to go. It cannot be 
wheedled into taking dross instead of pure metal ; 
never mistakes the flaunting banner of Sensationalism 
for the proud crest of Genuineness. 

The girl herself is too obtuse to be hurt by the 
world's verdict. She braves public opinion, scoffs 
at private remonstrance ; her meretriciousness infects 
her entire social area, and drives thoughtful people 
into grave doubts as to democratic methods of train- 
ing. If Modesty — the chief charm of girlhood — is 
in danger of assault, we are justified in calling upon 
the most stringent aids aristocratic surveillance can 
furnish. Good girls, pretty girls, clever girls, quiet 
girls, vivacious girls, brilliant girls, beautiful girls, 
ugly girls, — one and all have an honorable place in 
society. In their behalf let it be persistently demanded 
that the Sensation-Girl be blackballed from refined 
circles. 

Another distinctive type is produced by Sentimen- 
talism. An ordinary school routine added to total 
absence of intelligent home influence, has left this 
young girl an overplus of leisure to be devoted to 



98 



FOOLISH VIRGINS. 



sweetmeats and novels. Under a long course of this 
twofold stimulus the emotions acquire a strangely- 
perverted force. Every-day life becomes affected with 
distasteful monotony. The people long-known seem 
prosy, tedious ; those newly acquainted with are de- 
void of beauty, wanting in spirit. The activities of 
home are wearisome drudgery; the pursuits of society 
are tame and colorless. In brilliant contrast with these 
are the stirring adventures of fictitious life. Here, she 
thinks, are scenes worth participating in, people worth 
admiration and sympathy ! 

If curiosity, or hope, or necessity induce her to par- 
take of the world's usual pastimes, she returns home 
laden with disappointment. Are those the diversions 
she must accept? Those the men and women she 
must be content with? Why are they in all respects 
so unlike those encountered in romances? Surely 
the people there depicted must have their prototypes 
somewhere in the real world ! So she firmly believes, 
and resolutely bends herself to finding them. The 
search is long, indefatigable, and, of course, fruitless. 

The privilege of Romance is to idealize Reality, not 
to change its essential features. But of this the poor 
girl is ignorant. She takes her view of the world 
from one position only, thus forming sadly-mistaken 
impressions. Her ideas are awry, her opinions half 
fledged, her observations superficial. She judges 
people, not by laws of nature, but by highly-colored 
tales of fiction. Judging thus, she finds her heroes 
of real life wholly lacking in the heroic qualities her 
fancy depicts, and turns from them with ill-concealed 
repugnance. 

With antidotes of reason administered in early girl- 



FOOLISH VIRGINS. gg 

hood Sentimentalism might have been arrested. A 
novel cannot injure a girl if a chapter of real life be 
held up by its side and a judicious comparison insti- 
tuted. But in this case, evidently, antidotes were not 
at hand, and the poison worked its destructive way. 

She leads a wearily-unsatisfactory life, without even 
the slender solace of knowing the cause. Alternately 
elated by hope and depressed by failure, she is utterly 
unfitted for any responsible post. Her realization of 
this, perchance her tearfulness over it, avail nothing in 
changing her condition. To the world she is nothing 
save a silly girl looking for what she will never find, 
wasting all her youth in a barren search. Possibly, 
years may bring her experiences which shall modify 
her early-imbibed falsities, and make the latter half of 
her life more joyous than the first half. 

The ranks are still full, but we notice a change in 
the general aspect of face and form. This arises, we 
are told, from a melancholy truth called Uncertain 
Age. Here are various specimens who have outlived 
girlhood without securing the womanly substitutes, — 
earnestness and dignity. 

** A beauty and a belle ! this I once was !" whispers 
one of these elderly young women. We do not doubt 
her assertion, although involuntarily wondering why 
she does not now abdicate in favor of younger claim- 
ants for those honors. She has seen many "Seasons," 
is well versed in the world's ways; to her nothing 
is novel, nothing attractive, nothing gay. Her face 
would still be a handsome one were it not so anxious, 
so stern, so vacant. There is no light, no warmth. 



lOO FOOLISH VIRGINS. 

there : it has all the rigidity of a statue. Knowing 
her brilliant past, we cannot help regarding her with 
interest and a certain kind of admiration; but under- 
lying these is a peculiar consciousness of pity. There 
is that in her walk, manner, and appearance which 
is unpleasantly suggestive of fashion-plates, while her 
voice sounds dull and spiritless. She looks as if nat- 
ural abilities were not insignificant, but as if unceasing 
vigilance in preserving intact the reputation of a belle 
had deadened and rendered them useless. A single 
glance at her brings up in quick succession sundry 
phases of a belle's life, — its exactions, its triumphs, 
its humiliations. It sets us to wondering how much 
real satisfaction she derived from her course, and 
whether she ever sought anything better. There is 
here no repose, no deep inner life to fall back upon 
with a sense of relief after exposure to the world's 
tumult. Her individuality seems ceaselessly mur- 
muring : 

" I was once a beauty and a belle. My life-work is 
over : I am now useless !" 

Yet she herself falls into the egregious mistake 
of fancying that to other people she still appears 
young. Her juvenilities of dress suggest invidious 
comparisons with her years ; her assumed artlessness 
of speech provokes ridicule; her unschooled impulses 
induce manifestations so indiscreet as to justify the 
malicious interpretation of Gossip. Could it be other- 
wise when a woman at forty lives the same life 
precisely as at twenty, sustaining her position only 
through amazing energy and extravagant hope? 

Weary unto death of doing the things which have 
long since lost their zest, she yet forces herself into 



FOOLISH VIRGINS. iqi 

that doing with stolid determination. Sated with fri- 
volity, she drags its chains to the bitter end : arrived 
there, she learns with dismay that her worthless life is 
made so — not by the gift of beauty, not by the rigors 
of celibacy, but — by emptiness of purpose. Inwardly 
she is a moaning, groaning, long-faced woman : out- 
wardly she is a jaunty, simpering, prinking woman 
who imposes upon no one — save herself 

The decayed beauty crumbles into dust, leaving a 
faint perfume of long-forgotten conquests, long-lost 
opportunities. 

" I have a Vocation !" Such is the introductory 
phrase of the next who rivets the eye. She is 
keen-witted, bitter-tongued, provokingly inquisitorial. 
Her bearing suggests masculine activity without its 
strength ; her tactics are a painful jarring of feminine 
instincts ; her countenance shows well-marked traces 
of damaged prospects. Her vocation has extracted 
from her womanhood all its sweetness, all its color- 
ing ; it now radiates only stiffness, aridity, acrimony. 

"Reform! Reform!" is her rallying cry. But, both 
principle and practice apply to other people only — not 
to herself Under its demoniac spell she cavils, de- 
nounces, vociferates, — this with no greater result than 
to proclaim far and wide her own untenable position. 
Neither persuasion nor opposition avails, however, to 
check her career : until her ill-directed forces spend 
themselves there is no hope of abatement. Mean- 
while, the world alternately objects, tolerates, resists, 
holds its breath, and — moves on. 

Strong-willed, repellent Reformer! Her person- 
ality is like a blast from an iceberg penetrating the 



102 FOOLISH VIRGINS. 

thickest and warmest wraps of sentiment. She is a 
fatality boldly invading the peaceful haunts of domes- 
ticity to rouse its inmates to a phantom-fight. ** Mas- 
culine Oppression !" *' Feminine Rights !" These 
resound in our bewildered ears until compelled in 
self-defence to let their meaning work its way into 
consciousness. Before venturing to form conclusions 
we turn to the ungracious disturber and ask : 

Do you mean to assert that woman's physical 
strength is equal to that of man's ? that her intellect 
can compare with his in sustained power? Is she to 
be trained under the same system ? to seek the same 
kinds of labor? the same fields in science, in litera- 
ture, in society ? By enlisting under your standard 
will she be the better qualified to fulfil nature's de- 
signs ? Before these questions are half enunciated a 
volley of contemptuous answers is levelled at us. 

Yes ! poor benighted creatures ! Yes ! yes ! I say 
to all your pitiful inquiries. Throughout all the past 
woman has been a slave to man, — she is so still! She 
consults only liis wishes, bends to Jiis whims, craves 
Jiis admiration, and feels herself well rewarded, for- 
sooth, if she obtains Ids love ! In this degradation 
she cares not what becomes of the rest of the world. 
She ignores politics, turns a listless ear to science, 
opens her eyes in stupid wonder at my social inno- 
vations. I despise her imbecility more than words 
can express ! I shall never, never rest until I have 
dragged her out of it by sheer persistence ! 

Enough ! Judging from tone of voice and gesture 
the Reformer is in a chronic state of ill-temper. Dis- 
jointed mentally herself, she strives indefatigably to 
put all other women into the same unhappy condition. 



FOOLISH VIRGINS. 103 

To effect this end no weak spot in the domestic organ- 
ization is left unprobed. War means combined strat- 
egy, attack, and perseverance. These the Reformer 
fearlessly uses in her assaults. Man's strength, self- 
ishness, temper, arrogance, despotism, — these are the 
weapons she hurls right and left at feminine ears. But 
the sole end she accomplishes is disastrous defeat; on 
every fair woman's forehead it is blazoned in these 
words, — 

My glory is in your so-called slavery ! 

The Foolish Virgin of literary proclivities now 
comes in sight. Casually glanced at, she appears 
restless, ill at ease, as if in her position by accident, 
not choice. She studies, she discusses, she writes, — 
but not earnestly, not heartily. Bred on prejudices 
and customs, she cannot outgrow their effect. While 
strikingly ** blue" in mental complexion, she vainly 
attempts to conceal the tint with fatuous hypocrisies. 
She toils to bring about an impossible compatibility 
between life-literary and life-conventional. Failing in 
this, she weakly compromises, putting half of her in- 
tellect into literary ventures, half of it into enervating 
social puerilities. Possibly she dubs this compromise 
" duty to family," or " claims of society," which nomen- 
clature makes it none the less hurtful in effect. 

The incessant clashing between her sense of ability 
and her reiterated frittering wears away self-respect. 
Conscious of dereliction, she becomes irritable towards 
herself, unjust to others. Hearing her professions, we 
might suppose she had entered upon her career in 
good faith, resolved to develop her mental capacities 
to the uttermost. Seeing her actions, we infer that 



£04 FOOLISH VIRGINS. 

she expects honors to flow in through pure ardor of 
wishing, instead of through zealous assiduity. For 
other women who are inconsistent there are all the 
grades of extenuation due to weaker reasoning powers. 
For this woman there is none, because her vacillation 
is the sole cause of her mental sterility. Knowing 
what impairs health, what dulls the brain, what warps 
executive ability, she is justly held responsible for 
every violation of that knowledge. By yielding to 
petty distractions which drain vitality she gradually 
weakens the productive force. Aims and desires still 
exist; but these without correspondent action serve 
only to make her a conspicuous target for every sim- 
pleton who chooses to fling his disparaging epithet of 
Blue-Stocking. 

Smarting under this, she lowers her standard of 
excellence and adopts any means which will spread 
her name or purchase adherents. She entertains the 
masses by publishing flame-colored pictures of life ; 
she startles the minority into attention by daring 
theories, trashy improbabilities, unnatural creations. 
Popularity attained, she laps herself in its soft folds, 
loses herself in a fleeting ecstasy. But, at heart 
there is no repose, no consciousness of having helped 
humanity, no sedative for life's excitements. She 
is classed in the long category of women who for 
a temporary success forfeit their highest convictions 
and purest sentiments. 

Nothing-To-Do is a qualification which brings many 
middle-aged members into this troop. Here is one 
who was born dowerless of personal charms : in her 
best epoch, youth was her sole attraction. Having 



FOOLISH VIRGINS. 105 

this, however, she formed matrimonial plans quite as 
liberally, if not as ambitiously, as her fairer sisters. 
Those failing — with or without fault of her own — she 
never replaced them by plans of any other nature. 
In this irresponsible state she drifts into lazy inanities, 
into mischief-making propensities, into ridiculous sit- 
uations. The sole remedy — occupation — may or may 
not be forced upon her by circumstances. If not, she 
is a torment to her neighbors, a misery to herself, a 
dead weight upon society. Her personality engenders 
those miserable aspersions upon Spinsterhood which 
terrify many timorous young women into matrimonial 
perjury. 

Marriage at all hazards ! is the watchword of those 
aspersions. At its sound, ringing through the land, 
one weak woman after another gives her signature 
to a conjugal contract which entails infinitely greater 
wretchedness than vows of perpetual singleness. 

The Nothing-To-Do woman, in addition to general 
supineness, adopts sundry phenomenal habits — Affec- 
tation, for instance. Under this spell, she goes to 
concerts when her appreciation of music is too feeble 
to distinguish between a march and a symphony. 
She sits through operas again and again, even when 
endorsing Southey's opinion that " it is high treason 
against common sense." She spends hours in a pic- 
ture-gallery when her ideas of Art are still more 
crude than her perceptions of Nature. She reads — or 
pretends to read — books in vogue or of classic fame. 
Finding nothing in them which appeals to her calibre, 
she is, naturally, wearied, and concludes that she is 
not literary. In talking, her words are out of har- 
mony with her manner and features. There come, 

10 



Io6 FOOLISH VIRGINS, 

possibly, well-turned sentences relating to intelligent 
people, clever books, extensive travels. But, they 
fail to impart any idea of proprietorship as regards 
the speaker; they sound as if recited, — even then 
without appreciation of the sense. Thought is shorn 
of its strength, Feeling stripped of its delicacy. Truth 
of its earnestness. Whatever she says is devoid 
of pith and fervor: it is as if flavored with insipid 
Extract of Advantages. We cannot respond — re- 
main wholly unmoved — although the topics broached 
usually warm us quickly enough. We are puzzled 
to account for the non-effect of her fluency, but dis- 
miss the subject as troublesome. Later, — it may be 
hours or days, — an explanation suddenly looms up. 
Affectation was the barrier that checked communica- 
tion between us. 

Poor misguided woman ! Can she not see that 
artifice defeats the only feeble aim she has, — the re- 
gard of others ? Does she not know that intellect, 
elegance, or grace can produce due effect only when 
held by right of inheritance or of acquisition ? — that 
to assume them must inevitably bring upon her either 
charitable pity or malevolent contempt ? 

The procession is still passing, but our eyes are 
sensible of that fatigue which follows long gazing at 
costumes, colors, forms, and faces. Besides, we know 
that Foolish Virgins constitute only a portion — a 
small one — of womankind ; that by simply looking 
in another direction scores and scores of girls totally 
different may be seen, — seen, admired, and loved. 
Moreover, who would deny that Foolish Virgins 
often develop into wise matrons ? Nature's economy 



FOOLISH VIRGINS. 107 

contrives to get good out of evil, although not with- 
out loss and pain to the individual. In hundreds 
of cases where girls might pass a bright, joyous 
girlhood, a blighting influence — from ignorance some- 
where — fastens upon and cripples their fairest facul- 
ties. 



■V. 

OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. 



If I understand the general voice of society, it is 
that people are much more likely to overrate tlicin- 
selvcs than their neighbors. Perhaps it is so — perhaps 
I may come to think so. Pending the uncertainty, I 
feel profound sympathy for those who live half a life- 
time — often a whole one — before learning the dismal 
fact that they have lost themselves through overrating 
others. 

There is D., for instance, a good fellow with more 
than an average of the world's prizes; yet, in his hands 
both goodness and prizes are shorn of their potency. 
He excites no attention, no curiosity, no strong feel- 
ing of any kind. Wherever he is, people accord him 
that negative respect which plainly implies indiffer- 
ence. He rarely expresses a decided opinion upon 
any subject, — when he does, is visibly humiliated by 
the dissent of others. If he allude to his house, to 
his land, to his condition, it is in terms of disparage- 
ment, intimating how much better they might, or 
ought to be. In his own eyes he is of extremely 
small importance. In this, the world is prompt to 
agree with him, — it takes him at his own valuation, 
adding a half-contemptuous shrug, which means : 
io8 



OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. 



109 



" Poor fellow ! he is too meek, he will never get 
along." The world is right as to results, but careless 
as to their origin. 

Self-distrust creates in D. an insensate timidity — 
fear of this, fear of that, fear of everything and every- 
body. "Other People" to him means a Goblin with 
withering eye, sneering tone, and malignant influence. 
He hates it — yet bows to it, submits his will to it, de- 
nies his very soul her rights — nay, if much pushed, 
would sell it to the Goblin at its own price. He 
fancies that whatever comes from an outside source 
is better than what originates within. This prompts 
him to lean even upon a doubtful prop, rather than 
stand alone with personal conviction or intuition. It 
is a source of vacillation — that balancing between 
affirmation and denial which makes the decision of 
one hour the torment of the next. Desire to do, 
desire to take, — these are so rudely confronted with 
possible consequences, that self-denial seems less pain- 
ful than risk. 

He estimates men and women from a subjective 
stand-point, transferring his own personality into his 
judgment, giving his own interpretation to their words 
and actions. He overrates others because he himself 
is generous, or energetic, or tolerant. Easy to see 
where such a false valuation of people would lead a 
man, how it would make him a nonentity without the 
solace of self-conceit. 

Let us now suppose D. brought — not suddenly, but 
through reiterated sharp experiences — to self-enlight- 
enment. Arrived, say at middle-age, he discovers 
that people are not at all as he once rated them, and 
that to see them as they are he must look at them 

10* 



no OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. 

from an objective stand-point. He learns, in short, 
that overrating others is a fallacy, — one requiring 
strong antidotes. What are they ? where found ? 
how applied ? 

Summing up the results of inquiry, they sound 
something like this : 

Do you, D., realize that the habit of overrating has 
made you a miserably worthless fellow? that to save 
even a remnant of your selfhood, you must instantly 
begin to do many strange, many apparently incon- 
sistent things? First of all, you must cultivate Reck- 
lessness, — cultivate it earnestly, persistently. What 
heretofore you have shrunk from as bold and rash, is 
now and hereafter just the thing to be done. Reck- 
less thinking, reckless feeling, reckless doing, — these 
are to be your watchwords. If you doubt and hesi- 
tate, recall the past, how from the very decisions or 
actions which at the time seemed horribly daring, you 
derived the only absolute satisfaction of your life. 

Second: avoid Familiarity as the certain bane of 
Self- Respect. Do not your cheeks still tingle at the 
jest or the scorn dropping from a neighbor's lip, know- 
ing that your shame was justly incurred by a previous 
laxity of speech or manner? Throwing frankness 
before ignorance and vulgarity, — as you did, — must 
not this of necessity lead to misconstruction ? 

Or, when you wrote those words — honest but in- 
appropriate — to B., and afterwards found that what 
with you had been earnest feeling had to her proved 
a source of idle merriment. To be sure, you quickly 
shut the mental door that separated your individuality 
from hers, resolved that henceforth no weak good- 



OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. m 

nature should permit such an intruder. But, even at 
the instant of receiving the sting, you knew you de- 
served it; for, save through undue famih'arity on your 
part, there could have been no opportunity of giving 
it. Better undeviating commonplaces in a letter than 
an indiscreetness which might lead to rude handling. 

Or, when you, D., associated — in those days you 
well remember — with C, did you not feel that men- 
tally he was not your equal, consequently, that the 
bond made you appear illogical, abnormal ? Did you 
not find, later, that the fact of companionship with C. 
was a cause of chagrin to you, besides marring your 
prospects in a certain influential quarter where other- 
wise you were in good repute ? 

" Yes" — to both of these queries. Your natural 
impulse was to admire others. You over-estimated 
C. at the outset, and through that were drawn into 
precipitate judgment. When — as soon happened — 
too much familiarity with an inferior made the tie 
irksome, you saw yourself forced to break it. Yet, 
because it pained you to give pain you strove to avoid 
the issue, and lingered in unworthy chains. Finally, 
when it was over — when C. was offended and others 
called you fickle-minded — you began to have some 
understanding of the thing called Self-Respect, — of 
the way to acquire and keep it. 

Third : regulate your Sympathies. These are, 
doubtless, meant for something good, — but, in their 
present untutored state see how they cripple you ! 
All who come within your range draw upon your 
thoughts and feelings. You cannot see even utter 
strangers without being forced to yield to them a por- 
tion of your vitality, without dwelling unduly upon 



112 OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. 

what they were, are, or may be. Even when reason 
points out your course, sympathy outstrips the will, 
causing it to be influenced by others' whims, shaken 
by their opposition, made miserable by their misery. 

Keen sympathies call for as much discipline as 
strong passions. To become warmly interested in 
another being necessitates the temporary suspension 
of your own life : and oft-repeated suspensions are 
sure to end in collapse. 

Glance for an instant at unsympathetic people, and 
profit — if you can — by the contrast. 

They never have violent desires or unavailing re- 
grets. They are entirely proper in their manners, and 
rarely get into trouble. They are cool in judgment, 
decisive in action. They see clearly others' deficien- 
cies and mistakes, and unhesitatingly call them by 
their right names; nor do they make any attempt to 
palliate, or absolve. They are not fretted by scruples, 
torn by doubts, weakened by tenderness. Whatever 
happens, they are positive, immovable, complacent. 
If intellectual, they are dogmatic, controversial, de- 
nunciatory: if illiterate, they are intractable, obstinate, 
bigoted. 

Unsympathetic people make the most " useful" 
members of society. Seeing only the thing they are 
directly engaged upon, they finish it with prompt- 
ness. They are not worried, as sympathetic people 
are, with an infinity of other things they ought or 
want to do. Being thus free from hindrances, they 
carry out their purposes without delay. Their minds, 
not distracted by conflicting theories, wishes, and 
projects, concentrate upon the matter in hand. 



OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. 113 

Concentration produces tangible results. Given an 
equal amount of physical or mental strength, unsym- 
pathetic people appear to far greater advantage than 
their more sensitive neighbors. They furnish a clue 
to the mystery called Accomplishing Much. Yet, — 
strange to say, — the most " useful" members of society 
are not the most desirable as companions. Were 
choice possible, you are quite sure you would take 
unsympathetic people to do your work, but sympa- 
thetic ones to live with. 

Finally, you, D., feel that by constant use of these 
antidotes you may eventually attain to that equi- 
librium of mind commonly called philosophical, and 
prized by you beyond all else. 

To overrate others is to establish a false relation 
between them and ourselves, to bring about endless 
complications of disappointment, vexation, humilia- 
tion. It makes us see beauty where deformity exists; 
imagine depth where there is shallowness ; expect 
generosity where meanness is the ruling motive; count 
upon strength when only weakness can be evoked. 

Mr. A. is a gentleman who has a fair amount of 
general information, strongly infused with self-esteem. 
When he speaks of his family, of his books, of his 
pictures, of his horses, of his plants, of his friends — 
of anything belonging to him — it is in tones of full 
conviction as to their superior quality. His judg- 
ment having chosen an article is all-sufficient to 
prove its worth. The same peculiarity is noticeable 
in his opinions ; their intrinsic value is so clear to 
him that he thinks it needless to listen to those of 
other people. A difference of statement strikes him 



114 



OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. 



as a species of insolence; argument, as sheer waste 
of time and energy; opposition ruffles him like a per- 
sonal affront. 

It is the same with his tastes : when he says : " I 
like this or that," it means that this fiat must for ever 
settle — not his personal liking merely — but the liking 
of everybody else. If those near him — especially 
those subordinate — presume to evince ever so slight a 
grade of dissent, so much the worse for them. 

Mr. A.'s personality is a something so strong, so 
sweeping, that it gets far more than it deserves. Not, 
of course, from men and women of the world. They 
read him through and through, smile at his foibles, 
value him simply for what he has, or does, or is, in 
the community. But people of little world-experience 
are sadly imposed upon. They give respect in super- 
abundance, take the whole man, without demur, at his 
own inflated valuation. I remember well how uncom- 
fortably inferior I used to feel in Mr. A.'s presence. 
If the talk was of acquaintance, he quickly intimated 
that mine were nobodies compared to his; if upon 
books, that /had read nothing worth the mention; if 
upon travel, that / had passed by all the places and 
things of real interest, and might as well have stayed 
at home. 

Not that there was any intention on his part to 
bring about these unpleasant sensations. On the con- 
trary, there were times when he really wanted to 
please; but, throughout his words, smiles, and atten- 
tions ran a vivid streak of condescension which both 
irritated and depressed me. It produced a conviction 
that if my opinion should openly clash with his, he 
would think me either an idiot or an enemy. 



OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. 115 

Needless to say, this effect was simply the overrating 
of a young girl new to the world. Later, when more 
varied experiences brought a somewhat clearer mental 
vision, there was quite another judgment. I saw then 
that Mr. A. was an admirable citizen, whose probity 
and liberality deserved sincere respect ; but, that he 
was not the man of extraordinary attainments I once 
thought him. 

Young Mrs. B. offers another illustration of self- 
esteem exacting unfair tribute from others. She has 
a dainty individuality, being pretty to look at, graceful 
in bearing, refined in tastes. She has a bright smile, 
ready wit, and winning manner, so that wherever she 
goes, people say: 

"What a charming young woman !" 

And so she is — very charming indeed — when not 
annoyed, or contradicted, or advised, or thwarted in 
any way. In either of these contingencies, she is 
quite the reverse. 

She cannot tolerate weakness, error, ignorance, 
vulgarity, least of all, — neglect of herself Whoever 
offends in one of these points comes under the ban of 
her displeasure. And for how long? Alack! this 
gentle woman, once offended, is always offended : 
stern, implacable, she never abates one jot of her first 
resentment. Acting fearlessly upon this principle, she 
sows a bitterness which spreads over many human 
hearts. She possesses fine sensibilities, — so fine that 
the most delicate shades of character act and react 
upon her incessantly. Yet, she is apparently blind 
to the fact that other people have similar sensibilities 
which her conduct ruthlessly disregards. 



Il6 OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. 

If Mrs. B.'s good opinion and affection are to be 
retained, the weapon called Tact must be always at 
hand. Without this, it would not be possible to live 
with her upon amicable terms ; with it, the daily in- 
tercourse is very pleasant, so long as no unrefined or 
obnoxious person comes upon the scene. 

In brief, she can neither adapt herself to other people 
nor bear with the uncongenial kind. Moreover, she 
cannot see the inconsistency of exacting the utmost 
consideration from others, while refusing to practise 
the rudiments of forbearance towards those "others." 

Two questions arise : 

Is this young woman aware of this dark spot on her 
personality ? 

If aware, can she not cover it with self-control ? 

With every desire for fairness, only negative an- 
swers can be given, and for this reason. Her mind, 
although very active, is appreciative only up to a certain 
point. It sees grace and beauty, it values dignity and 
strength; but, it never penetrates the surface, cannot 
understand principles, seems incapable of analyzing the 
defects which repulse her. Once prejudiced against 
another person, she never tries either to overcome or 
to modify the sentiment; nor could she understand 
the rebuke if the object of her dislike were to retort: 

Pray, madam, are you perfect? Have you yourself 
no weak points, no ugly traits ? 

There is one thing, however, in which Mrs. B. can 
hardly be rated too high. She has that excellent self- 
control which keeps manner, countenance, and tongue 
in abeyance. And although intolerance causes her to 
exercise it only in behalf of her own interests, it never- 
theless calls forth my genuine admiration. 



OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. 



117 



A discussion, for instance, arises in the family circle, 
taking — as discussions often will — an unlucky per- 
sonal coloring. At such a moment, when every sen- 
sitive soul around her is on the rack of discomfort, 
this woman shows great composure and prudence. 
Not a word escapes her lips, not a shade of assent 
or dissent passes over her features. Quick to resent 
attacks — real or fancied — upon her own personality, 
she is rarely moved by the annoyances or embarrass- 
ments of others. However warm the argument waxes, 
she preserves that calm neutrality which to one of 
ardent temperament is more vexing than even unwise 
partisanship. Mrs. B. is of mature age, as years count, 
but lacking the mental acumen which produces growth 
of character, it is plain that no external influence can 
change her. What she is now, she will be to the end 
of time. 

What, then, in our relations with her, is the safest 
course ? 

Simply this : not to overrate her. Allowing her 
the full advantage of every good quality, of every 
charm she possesses, yet, as a whole to consider her 
incompetent — through an overplus of self-esteem — to 
exercise tolerance towards others. 

Why does one woman listen with attention to the 
opinions of others, receiving them with respect if not 
with credulity ? Why does she attribute to people 
motives in accord with her own ideas of honor or of 
refinement, this often in direct opposition to her own 
intuitions ? Simply because she has more veneration 
than self-esteem. 

Why does another woman evince a marked disdain 
II 



Il8 OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS, 

for other people, their ideas, wishes, and feeHngs? 
Why, even in her affections, is there more of exac- 
tion or of passion than of devotion ? Because in her 
organization there is a preponderance of self esteem. 

Of what use to note these cases or others, — that 
one person has a violent temper, that another is ex- 
asperatingly meek, another insufferably lazy, another 
disagreeably arrogant ? Of use only because of the 
possibility of counteracting by education every defi- 
ciency or excess. 

Overrating creates erroneous judgment. Attrib- 
uting to E. qualities he does not possess, you expect 
him to act contrary to Nature. This expectation dis- 
appointed, judgment revenges itself, exclaiming: E. is 
not the man you took him for ! But, in reality, he 
is precisely the same as when first known, — the over- 
rating him was the error. Suppose him incapable 
of fine distinctions between right and wrong, and 
acting in accordance with such incapacity. Com- 
pelled to have business or social relations with him, 
what are you to do ? Assuredly, the first step would 
be not to expect him to act as a man of higher moral 
tone would act. 

Estimating him fairly, you are on your guard ; you 
protect yourself or your interests as best you may. 
You are not surprised when E.'s conduct shocks your 
moral sense. Being what he is he could not act other- 
wise, although he may live in a community many 
years doing nothing to offend public sense of justice. 
But it is at your own risk if you relax vigilance over 
him. Does not everything prove that where there 
is a natural lack of conscience, the occasion for the 



OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. hq 

development of that lack is sure, sooner or later, to 
appear ? When E., then, looks lightly upon tempta- 
tions, or, in observing men and things accepts ugly 
facts without tracing out causes, it may be safely in- 
ferred that he pursues the same method towards him- 
self Whatever disaster happens, say in his business, 
in his profession, or in his family, he will never be 
able to see fault or mismanagement on his own part. 
While wincing under material losses, he finds ample 
excuses for himself in the words " bad luck," or " state 
of the country," or somebody else's blunder. Even 
after being fairly convicted, similar characteristics ap- 
pear. True, he is ready enough to make promises of 
amendment : but, knowing him to be morally weak, 
by what right can you expect him to keep those 
promises, or to show penitence when they are broken ? 
If you do so expect, you overrate the man. 

Moral force is something quite distinct from rea- 
son, from observation. E. is deemed a clear-headed, 
sound-hearted man ; he talks well upon finance, upon 
political affairs, upon social and domestic duties. He 
is made manager of institutions, treasurer of banks, 
director of public interests. And in one sense he is 
well fitted for these trusts, — he is practical, discerning, 
prompt. In another sense — one the world does not 
notice — he is eminently unfitted. Having a low moral 
standard, he has no appreciation of the fine springs 
within springs which control administration. The 
day comes then when E. falls into financial difficul- 
ties. He discusses the subject freely, acknowledges 
his obligations, promises to try and bring order out 
of chaos. But if, after months or years of this trying, 
no results are perceptible, we may well doubt the 



120 OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. 

moral ability. Just as the tippler sees the weakness, 
folly, ruin, of the habit, and yet — continues tippling; 
so E. knows where indolence, or pleasure, or specu- 
lation will lead him, and yet — continues yielding to 
its seductions. Remonstrated with, he becomes in- 
dignant : 

** What would you have me do ? I see it all, am 
suffering from my mistakes, and mean to correct 
them ! What more do you wish ?" But protest, 
however strong, is not moral force. Until actions 
answer to promises, E. deserves no trust : whoever 
gives it upon lower conditions overrates him and must 
accept the consequences. 

Our affections, too, often lead us into overrating 
people. We like to be liked : so, when here and there 
one among the crowd turns aside expressly to testify 
his interest in us and our affairs, we are not insensible 
to the pleasant flattery. Ourself is, possibly, wholly 
unimportant to the world at large, but to us Ourself 
is a personage we vastly enjoy seeing appreciated. 

Here are two young girls — friends — as they are 
called. 

L. is thoughtful, conscientious, reserved in manner, 
shy in making any demonstration, especially so to- 
wards those she most admires. She does not usually 
attract attention, is more respected than loved, al- 
though by no means insensible to affection when ten- 
dered. 

M. is the one who tenders it. Gaiety of disposition, 
fondness for dress, delight in comfort and outward 
show, enjoyment of the world as it is — these are M.'s 
characteristics. For some reason she takes a fancy 



OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. 121 

to L., voluntarily professes fond attachment. Some 
people call M. frivolous, but L. stoutly defends her 
adherent, excusing her levities, humoring her fancies. 
But this sort of compact cannot last. Earnestness 
and Gaiety may pass many pleasant hours together 
without becoming confidential. Gaiety cannot under- 
stand her companion, while Earnestness must lower 
her thoughts to meet those of the other. 

L., then, in return for affection, has persistently 
overrated M. : while the latter, owing to the conde- 
scension of her friend, has always underrated her. 

Two other young women cherish friendship one for 
the other. H., usually cold and reticent, manifests for 
F. admiration so ardent and so plainly expectant of 
reciprocity that the position becomes somewhat pecu- 
liar. For, however grateful F. feels, however desirous 
of making sufficient acknowledgment, she cannot re- 
turn the sentiment in the same degree. But F. belongs 
to the overrating sect. Her own nature being deep 
and enthusiastic, she imagines there must be a similar 
latent force in her young friend, a force which time 
and patience can develop. Under this conviction she 
bends herself to a sacrifice of her own leisure in 
behalf of a more frequent interchange of visits and 
letters. Year after year passes, however, only to show 
that these two souls can never assimilate, that on one 
side, at least, the estrangement is more marked than 
ever. Good, amiable, wholly worthy of esteem, all 
this F. knows H. to be. Moreover, she gives her 
credit for far greater mental abilities than appear on 
the surface. Upon various occasions she openly main- 
tains that H. is misunderstood by other people, and 
looks forward hopefully to the time when the intimacy 



122 OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. 

so eagerly desired shall be consummated. Neverthe- 
less, spite of her overrating, F. cannot but see that the 
change does not come about. There is a perceptible 
undercurrent of coldness, a something which, put into 
words, would have been : 

We both mean well, and feel kindly disposed towards 
each other. But why take such pains to meet and 
spend hours together, when both are well aware that 
there is no satisfaction? 

At last the day of awakening comes. A chance 
sojourn under the same roof solves what to one party, 
at least, had long been an uncomfortable problem. The 
"much" which she persuaded herself lay dormant in 
the other dwindles away to its natural proportions. 
After that there is no farther attempt at welding Like 
and Unlike. Kindly feeling remains, but — as any save 
an overrating person would have seen at the outset — 
their ways in life are and ever must be widely different. 

"Estimez, comme moi, les hommes ce qu'ils valent, 
et il ne vous manquera rien pour etre heureuse." So 
D'Alembert wrote to a friend who found it hard to 
adjust her own keen wit and daring will to the dulness 
and platitudes of ordinary people. 

Very good advice, M. D'Alembert, — but how to do 
this thing, how learn to estimate people fairly? 

None of us want to be unjust towards others, nor 
do we want to be overridden by them. Cool judg- 
ment is said to be one of the most effective weapons 
for social encounters. Granted readily that it is, yet 
most of us soon learn that our natural desires, our in- 
terests and our education are prone to tamper with 
judgment and weaken its decisions. To estimate our 



OVERRATING OUR NEIGHBORS. 123 

neighbors at their just value we must go through a 
long preparatory course of self-study. Noting care- 
fully the complications we find within, and the diffi- 
culty of moulding them to the will, we come gradu- 
ally to a partial understanding of our neighbors. 

Character has key-notes which often very unexpect- 
edly fall upon our ears and explain mysteries of con- 
duct. In one person it is pride, in another ambition, 
in another self-distrust, or excess of feeling. Having 
heard the key-note, we may easily find our way to the 
inner nature. Allowing for possible modifications, we 
have no right to expect from a character more than 
that key-note indicates. 

Such an estimation makes plain to us the folly of 
thinking that our neighbors must see and feel as we 
do; of taking to heart and brooding over words which 
tell distinctly on what diverse planes we stand; of 
dreaming that it lies within our power to change our- 
selves or other people; of believing that we or they 
are accountable for personal idiosyncrasies; of mani- 
festing impatience when confronted with stupidity; of 
hurling the poisoned shafts of sarcasm at those who 
wound our sensibilities. 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 



To whom is travelling a fascination ? Surely not 
to everybody, for I see some around me who might 
spend their lives in it if they chose, who yet prefer the 
perpetual sameness of home ; and others again who 
have actually been upon the four quarters of the globe 
without adding either ideas or experience to their 
lives. It would seem, then, that it is a relative advan- 
tage, hindrance, pain, or pleasure ; that it is desirable 
just as society, solitude, matrimony, celibacy, and 
similar phases of life are desirable. If it meet our 
wants, conduce to development, fit us for better things 
than we are now doing, it is good ; if the reverse, it 
is bad. 

A progressive human animal passes through numer- 
ous stages of thinking and feeling, stages intelligible 
to himself if not to others. To be fond of travelling 
at twenty does not imply indefinite continuance of that 
fondness. Healthy growth, indeed, would necessitate 
a decrease in roving propensities with the approach of 
middle-age. Youth is only one epoch, — why attempt 
to prolong it beyond its due limit? Life is not so 
long that we can afford to merge one period into 
another : one by one they bring special tasks, pleas- 
124 



FASCINA TION OF RO VING. \ 2 5 

ures, pains, — the results of these to be duly assimilated. 
When this does not occur, life is more than a failure — 
it is a disaster. Youth passes so swiftly and silently 
that the passage is realized only when the next era is 
entered upon. 

At middle-age travelling is often an obstacle to 
development. A man with large financial interests 
at stake does not willingly leave his post to be filled 
by a subordinate. 

A woman holding the sovereignty of a home, con- 
scientiously shrinks from the risks and losses her 
absence may entail. 

The artist glowing with a conception he wishes to 
embody in form and color, knows that outward dis- 
tractions are the bane of excellence. Patient brood- 
ing and unremitting labor, — these, added to genius, 
are conditions of the immortal picture or statue. 

The inventor who feels within the movement of a 
new creation, desires only repose: he avoids every 
hindrance suggested by change of scene or thought 
until his problem of mechanism is solved. 

The woman who has received the gift of song which 
promises future glory seeks no diversion from daily 
routine. Schools and teachers are merely torches to 
show her the way to distinction ; whether she follow 
depends upon her courage, her self-reliance, her devo- 
tion, her entire renunciation of ease and pleasure 
during years of preparation. 

To the man of letters, roving is as serious a break 
in his life-work as sickness, accident, or similar mis- 
fortune. Not that he is wanting in a keen apprecia- 
tion of the agreeable possibilities accruing from novel 
sights and sounds. But, having pledged his honor to 



126 FASCINATION OF ROVING. 

Literature, he deems it only chivalrous to eschew every 
seduction which may in the least degree impair the 
fervor of devotion. If his brain have material enough 
for a projected work, he sees the folly of accumulating 
fresh thoughts, fancies, and impressions before the 
old are utilized. His mind, already crowded with 
questions to be pondered, resents the intrusion of new 
ones ; they interfere provokingly with trains of thought 
already started. A mass of undigested travelling is 
the precursor of sloth and purposeless dreaming. 

The thinker who has seen various foreign lands has 
experienced so great a mental excitement that years 
must elapse before the results can be systematized. 
In the interval, then, he travels merely for facts where- 
with to illustrate statements, for experience which shall 
verify theories : he submits to an unpleasant ordeal for 
the sake of ultimate gain. If he require rest, travel- 
ling may act as a powerful restorative; but it must not 
be the orthodox kind. This means a party, — often of 
incongruous people; much luggage to watch over and 
bear in mind; daily financiering; migration from one 
large hotel to another, and incessant activity. 

Radical travelling, on the contrary, means the free 
personal choice of a companion; liberty to select time 
and place; the care of only so trifling an amount of 
clothing as conduces to comfort; the voluntary dis- 
posal of days into sight-seeing, strolling, and idling. 

Yet, if middle-aged people avow dislike to travel- 
ling, thoughtless minds impute it to degeneracy of 
spirit, selfish love of ease. Such minds, being always 
in a state of childhood, cannot realize that others are 
maturing; that in this case people at thirty cannot 
possibly be the same as at twenty. They are less 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 127 

easily diverted, less affable with strangers, less inclined 
to give themselves up to the fancy of the hour. Yet 
they are not on this account incapacitated for travel- 
ling; under certain conditions they can, indeed, extract 
from it far more than in youth. 

If we consider travelling as a branch of educa- 
tion, it is easy to see who would derive both great 
pleasure and great profit from it. Let two men start 
upon the same journey — say a year in Europe — we 
may pretty nearly tell what they will bring back, 
whether in brain or in trunk, by observing the char- 
acter they leave home with. 

Travelling, to men and women of average ability, 
gives special benefits, of a quality to be had in no 
other way. 

That these benefits are reaped and stored away in 
very different modes, or, that after reaping they may 
be wantonly wasted, need not be demonstrated. Char- 
acter undergoes no intrinsic change because of travel. 
Intellect, heart, tastes, — these are the same whether 
at home or abroad. 

Choosing our travelling companion, then, we are 
quite safe in relying upon character as we know it at 
home. Whoever is morose or churlish at his own 
fireside will assuredly not lose this attribute when 
travelling. So with reticence, frankness, abruptness, 
suavity, — they are the same in one place as in another, 
only that travelling gives them to us more distinctly 
drawn, more highly colored. Travelling exaggerates 
character. The man whose personality would be dis- 
agreeable to us at home would be utterly intolerable 
in travelling. The woman who at home is absorbed 



128 FASCINATION OF ROVING. 

in the search for personal ease would in travelling die 
daily of discomfort. 

In what position in life, it might be asked, are we 
not cheered or depressed by our companions ? But in 
travelling the contact is necessarily closer. At home 
various occupations enable us to leave one another, at 
least, during some hours of the day. But when travel- 
ling this is rarely possible. We must hear the same 
sounds, see the same sights, suffer from the same in- 
conveniences, deal with the same people. 

Nevertheless, it may safely be asserted that if travel- 
ling is to be deferred until we find companions who 
meet our highest needs, we shall for the most part live 
through life without it. Philosophy tells us, then, to 
take the best companion within our reach, and fill up 
deficiencies with other resources. 

Preparation for travelling, — what different pictures 
this phrase brings up to mind ! To the very young 
or to the very thoughtless, Preparation — for anything 
— is a pleasurable excitement. It means relief from 
ordinary pursuits, and anticipation of extraordinary 
ones. It gives scope to the imagination, to that de- 
lightful play of thought, sentiment, and possibility 
which many travellers pronounce the best part of 
travelling. There are yet other people to Vv^hom 
Preparation for travelling is a veritable godsend, — 
those without any fixed occupation or without de- 
signs of any kind. They undergo that peculiar and 
always interesting transformation which results from 
the thing called Incentive. They are suddenly stirred 
by a something hitherto unknown in their somewhat 
vacant lives, — a motive, a purpose. They are going 



FASCINA TION OF RO VING. 1 29 

abroad — no matter whether for a three months' tour 
or for a year — they must get ready. New activity 
takes possession of their steps, new light enters their 
eyes, new accents vibrate in their voice, new thoughts 
penetrate their minds, new feehngs generate in their 
hearts. Temporarily, they are re-created people, and, 
seeing them thus, we ask : 

With some congenial occupation — one suited to 
ability and temperament — would not those same people 
be always thus energetic, thus vitalized? They like 
the excitement of preparation, they say, in response 
to remarks upon their unwonted briskness or happy 
bearing. It is not the amount that they purchase or 
prepare, it is the tangible interest put into their life 
which effects rejuvenation. Perhaps, of all the bene- 
fits of travel, this, to such characters, is the greatest. 
For the first time in their lives — this in many cases — 
they are drawn out of inanity. 

The people thus favorably affected by preparation 
for travelling are those who look beyond themselves 
for entertainment. They think home-life stupidly 
monotonous, but are wholly unaware of the reason 
— one which their best friends would hardly care to 
whisper — the stupid monotony of themselves. No 
thoughts, no sentiments, no purposes, no perceptions 
of any kind — without these, how in the name of won- 
der could home-life be anything but burdensome ! 

Preparation for travelling, however, opens a new 
and pleasing vista; gives, moreover, so sharp a reali- 
zation of ignorance that knowledge, even if superficial, 
becomes a requisite of self-respect. Geography, His- 
tory, Art — these hitherto mere dry terms synonymous 
with ennui now assume new colors, increased weight. 



130 FASCINATION OF ROVING. 

Whether going abroad or going to travel in their own 
country, they must at least know a few facts, gather 
in a few stores from other people's observations and 
statements. 

To another kind of people — men and women whose 
daily lives are filled in with definite aims and earnest 
endeavors — such preparation is a severe castigation 
to comfort. The bare thought of leaving home, with 
its familiar haunts and thronging associations; the 
tearing up of daily habits, interesting pursuits, and 
pleasurable recreations, causes a sensation of absolute 
pain : they suffer acute pangs of nostalgia in advance. 
To travel agreeably necessitates a prior equipment; 
and this means a giving up of the present to an un- 
tried future. While thus occupied, whether weeks or 
days only, everything best liked — positive or passive 
— must be abandoned. 

To a woman of this class I believe nothing in the 
list of arrangements gives more annoyance than the 
packing of trunks. Suppose yourself one of those 
women in an average room with an average quantity 
of women's "things" in it. In addition, the contents 
of sundry closets and drawers outside the room must 
be looked over and culled from. Travelling means 
experiencing many varieties of climate, of occasions 
without the privilege of running to one of these closets 
or drawers for the special clothing needed. And now 
which and how many of these ''things" to take? which 
and how many to leave? Here they are spread before 
the eye, — "things" hanging, "things" lying on shelves, 
"things" folded, "things" put away in obscure cor- 
ners, perhaps marked, perhaps not marked. To make 
a selection — say for a six months' tour — is in soimd an 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 131 

easy enough affair. To do it in reality is both trouble- 
some to do and unsatisfactory when done. Questions 
arise with every article of clothing touched: 

Shall I need this? Is it worth while to take that? 
Will it be warm or cold, or both ? Shall this plain, 
substantial garment, or this prettier, more graceful 
one, be chosen? For a rainy day, the first, of course; 
for a fine day, the second, of course. What remains 
but to take the two? Finally, after selecting only 
what seems absolutely indispensable to combined 
comfort and appearance, the putting into the trunk 
begins. How is this? You have disposed of only a 
handful of the things selected, and, lo, no more will 
go in — the trunk is full ! 

Dear me — is this packing ? you mutter to yourself. 
If so, I do not like it, — would fain run away from it. 
What is to be done? There is no time to lose; some 
of the things chosen — nay, a great many of them — 
must be left behind. So you begin, as you fancy, 
very systematically. A few of these, a i^^ of those — 
clothing, books, portfolios, boxes, nick-nacks — alto- 
gether a curious mass of miscellaneous objects — are 
stored away in the recesses of that trunk. Later, 
during those months of travel there comes to mind 
many a vexatious thought concerning that same trunk 
and its contents. Indeed, it is never once opened that 
you do not miss some very important article, and 
wish yourself rid of most of those found there waiting 
for use. To your daily annoyance you find that most 
of the " things" so carefully selected are precisely 
those which should have been left behind. With 
keen regret you refer but too often, in imagination, 
to a particular corner at home where just the article 



32 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 



needed for comfort or elegance is at this moment 
lying unused. However — such is the invariable re- 
flection — next time you travel you will know exactly 
what to take ; packing, like everything else, is to be 
learned. 

But, in truth, I believe this sort of woman never does 
learn: she might make a dozen or a hundred journeys 
without becoming one whit more skilled in the art 
of packing. Yet, perhaps her personal friends may 
think none the worse of her for that. Indeed, have not 
some of us noticed that the most precise and thorough- 
going of women, one able to pack nicely not only one 
trunk but a dozen of them, is by no means the most 
attractive of womankind? 

Preparation — sensible or otherwise — goes on with 
this unpractical woman in an exciting, vexing way up 
to the eleventh hour. Even then she is not ready, 
but leaves home with the uneasy conviction that things 
there are in sad confusion, and that after all her cogi- 
tation and toil her most needed "things" have been 
omitted. Poor woman ! Young or old, she ought to 
have somebody to look after her — at all times — but 
especially when packing her trunk. 

Experiences ! Who that has been a rover could 
not furnish enough for one or more volumes ? Most 
of them, it is true, are in a state of chaos — like the 
lives of most people — but a vast number find their 
way into descriptions of foreign lands, into letters, and 
into private journals. From these sources who among 
us cannot learn all we wish about the most remote 
countries and people I At certain epochs of mental 
life books of travel possess an irresistible fascination. 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 133 

We believe everything that every author tells us, and 
thus often grow into a somewhat contradictory knowl- 
edge of facts and fancies. Perhaps it is a good plan 
to read all the books we can find upon one special 
country or place before giving ourselves credit for any 
information whatsoever. The mental status of the 
traveller, in addition to his temper, his moods, and 
his facilities for seeing or not seeing, knowing or not 
knowing, — these must decide how much reliance is to 
be placed in him. 

Diaries kept on the spot are to me the most satis- 
factory of travel-records. Not that I should want to 
read every traveller's diary. The laws of comfort for- 
bid ! But with confidence in the traveller as man or 
woman — confidence in judgment, perception, and cul- 
ture — I gain thus a more vital knowledge of foreign 
lands and people than from any other source. Every 
day and every hour brings its own special events, 
incidents, observations, and the history of a single 
week thus noted often gives a clearer idea of a new 
place than the most elaborate treatise, — gives it, too, 
in a manner far less tedious. 

Reading a cleverly-written diary of travels, we are 
at once brought into close relations with the traveller's 
personality. In a i^w pages we discover whether or 
not there is any attraction for us; if not, there need 
be no waste through the attempt to force an interest. 
But, if we find head and heart enlisted in that person- 
ality, we require no farther incentive for continuing 
research. We give ourselves up to the pleasing in- 
fluence as the next best thing to travelling itself. 
Not having a good gift in our possession, it is some 
gratification to hear it vividly described. Alas that 



1 34 FASCINA TION OF RO VI NG. 

so many mortals are forced to take much of life's joy 
by proxy ! 

Roving desires grow from nourishment found in 
vivid descriptions of places and people. Never having 
heard of a foreign land, we should never know the 
restlessness caused by knowledge of its beauty or 
marvels. Even Imagination can build castles only 
upon a basis of Fact — a something known or felt. 

Experiences of roving, — who among us is willing 
to take them at hearsay, upon trust ? However strong 
your faith or interest in a printed narrative, you crave 
a test, a seeing and handling of the things there set 
forth. In youth, you read and dream of foreign lands 
until the realization of your conceptions becomes a 
passionate craving. You know more of the world 
beyond your range of vision than of the actual world 
that greets your daily waking. You long to see novel 
sights, to hear strange sounds, to have keen sensations. 
What you have seen portrayed in prose, in poetry, or 
on canvas you would fain know personally, intimately. 

Your faculties expand with rapturous anticipation 
at the bare thought of seeing the World — that fas- 
cinating mystery enshrining an endless variety of 
beautiful scenes and charming people. In imagi- 
nation you never have enough, because you can see no 
limit to your own active participation in the delightful 
whirl. 

Thus ripe for gratification of desire, you naturally 
seize the first opportunity offered. Where you go, 
how you go, what you see, under what conditions, — 
of how slight import are these to youthful glow ! You 
are living in the delights of roving — what more do 
you ask ? Even if too young to appreciate all you see 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 135 

and hear, you yet absorb into consciousness much that 
is to be comprehended only later in life. 

Nature, Art, Humanity — these, as exemplified in 
different nations, make impressions never to be effaced. 
Roving without care, without anxiety, reason and 
feeling are in turn roused to activity ; you imbibe an 
atmosphere of development which is to influence all 
future years. 

Roving on land — whether by railroad, by stage, by 
carriage, on horseback, on foot — furnishes a series of 
adventures which needs only an appreciative mind to 
enjoy, susceptibility to suffer from, and good sense to 
grow wise upon. 

Roving — like life everywhere — is made up of di- 
gressions. You start under auspices which promise 
golden results — golden as to experiences, I mean, not 
as to finding the precious metal. You have health, 
means, and a party — which, although not perhaps 
perfect as to material, is yet the best within choice 
at the eventful epoch of decision. And still, with all 
your caution and precaution, with every conceivable 
kind of advice and arrangement, there occurs many an 
unrecorded chapter of incidents sharply illustrative of 
the crooked, fantastic way in which things often work. 

Who could foresee the embarrassment or ludicrous 
situation ensuing now from a miscarried letter, now 
from a carelessly-worded telegram, now from down- 
right stupidity on your own or somebody else's part ! 
Nor will the remembrance of these and certainty as 
to their origin insure you against future mishaps. 



Now and then occurs one of those amazing combi- 



1 36 FASCINA TION OF RO VING. 

nations of defective judgment, change of plan, mis- 
take, and vexation, which no preconcerted device ever 
could have brought about. The traveller of Bohe- 
mian tendencies fully enjoys the humor of the thing; 
and to see others around him take it altogether au 
serieux, bringing out of it a superfluity of talking, 
planning, and suggesting, only adds to its farcical 
aspect. The traveller of practical turn is sure to be 
sorely tried over these petty complications. 

" How easily it might have been avoided if we had 
only acted differently !" So it might, my sententious 
friend ; and you may say the same of every imbroglio, 
domestic or foreign. In short, no matter how fairly 
we start, there must be many twists and turns, various 
annoyances endured, countless contingencies risked, 
before we can report ourselves safely arrived at a given 
point. 

Yet who cannot see that in these very digressions 
lie often dearly-cherished compensations ! A thrilling 
event, a thought-stirring book, a life-long friend, — 
either of these may ensue from the most inauspicious 
journey ever forced upon us. 

Travelling gives a power of adaptation which enables 
us to yield to the disagreeable exactions of life with 
greater ease than if we knew only the routine of home. 
Routine is easy to live by. Knowing the calls likely 
to be made upon us from hour to hour, we hold in 
reserve, as it were, the requisite amount of patience 
and self-control. The being prepared for an emer- 
gency helps to meet it bravely. But, in travelling, 
the incessant change of scene and tone of thought 
takes character by surprise. The weather, our own 
ignorance or neglect, others' stupidity, detentions, 



FASCINA TION OF RO VING. i ^y 

accidents, — any of these may circumvent the most 
carefully-laid plans. And whatever our degree of 
discomfiture, we are forced back upon resignation as 
the surest means of avoiding worse consequences. 

Visiting vast cities in any part of the world, we are 
struck with the universal tendency of mankind to 
associate for purposes of commerce, of art, of mecha- 
nism, of religion in all its varied forms. And what- 
ever the national or local differences, human character- 
istics prove everywhere identical — the same interests, 
the same loves and hates, the same virtues and vices, 
the same aspirations and degradations. Dwelling amid 
masses of humanity, we feel the human part of us 
stirred by earnest wishes and warm sympathy. It is 
a satisfaction to learn through observation and lan- 
guage that the heart of humanity is the same in one 
place as in another. We marvel over it even then, 
but the marvel gradually grows into a tranquillizing 
knowledge, which prepares the way for that most 
philosophical of principles — Cosmopolitism. 

A traveller who has once acquired this finds himself 
able to extract something good out of every place, out 
of every possible event or position. When in cities, he 
visits churches, picture-galleries, museums, libraries, 
parks, and gardens. He sees the inhabitants in public, 
sees them in private; knows something of their work, 
their play, their ambitions, — perhaps of their follies. 
Interested in all that is spread before him, he lingers 
long and leaves reluctantly. Yet, going as he must 
after a more or less limited sojourn, he carries with 
him facts, fancies, and impressions which ever after 
hold distinctive places in memory. Seeking a large 



138 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 



city for amusement only, is pitiful — for either men or 
women — and usually a failure as regards the end 
sought. But, seeking it for purposes of research, of 
becoming familiar with modes of education, govern- 
ment, social and industrial life, is an object at once 
noble and enlightening. Roving from town to town 
and from village to village is by no means productive 
of comfort, nor always of novelty or diversion ; yet, in 
no other way can we so well find out precisely how other 
nations live, think, act. There is a kind of life which 
never finds its way into books, but manifests itself in 
house and garden, in dress, manner, and countenance. 

Yet, after weeks or months of the excitements of 
city life, there comes over us a fatigue from which the 
most entertaining of sights cannot rally us. We are 
sated with sight-seeing, weary of walking and stand- 
ing, of thinking and feeling. We crave a rest in any- 
thing, from anything that is far removed from masses 
of buildings and crowds of people. 

Mountains, valleys, lakes, rivers, forests — which of 
these to choose ? 

Mountain-Roving, — what attractions does this offer? 
To many people, none at all. They are depressed in 
spirits by the first sight of mountains, and continue 
so until removed from their presence. They profess 
dislike for either riding or walking, have no desire to 
go over either a beaten track or an unexplored one. 
Upon the whole, their sole conception of pleasure from 
mountain scenery is a view from a hotel-window or 
porch, or from a comfortable carriage. ** Very fine 
indeed !" " Really superb !" ** How high is it? Dear 
me, do people walk over those dreadful places !" With 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 139 

such Hp-admiration as this, with such flippant wonder, 
they feel that they have amply satisfied the claims of 
celebrated spots. Having seen them without exertion 
of muscle, without mental strain, without emotional 
drain, they return home well content to be able to say, 
*' We have been there !" Every one has the right, not 
only to travel, but to do it in his own way and utter 
his own impressions. If, then, those who do not care 
for mountain-roving will frankly say so, we respect 
them for their honesty, but nevertheless do not desire 
to meet them. When we ourselves are in a glow of 
enthusiasm, it is not pleasant to have a cold stream 
of apathy abruptly poured upon us. 

But, to some other people, mountain-roving is the 
very acme of roving-delights. Merely to see moun- 
tains in the distance excites keen longings, and when 
on the spot they pass through a series of happy days, 
impossible even to trace with the pen. They drink 
in eagerly all the beauties and wonders of the new 
creation about them, — but carry away only memory- 
pictures, only soul-impressions. Once, during an event- 
ful period of roving privileges, I attempted to keep a 
journal. It went on very well — as far as a daily jotting 
down of dry facts might be called ** well" — until we 
entered Switzerland by the Splugen Pass. From that 
moment my hand was paralyzed, — description seemed 
sheer desecration. 

To say " I like the mountains" implies neither 
special merit nor special culture, but simply a moun- 
taineer-temperament. The Why, the How, the Effect, 
— these may well be left untouched, left to the imagi- 
nation of other innate mountaineers, the only ones, of 
course, who can sympathize with the liking. 



I40 



FASCINATION OF ROVING: 



Where else is there that joyous sense of freedom 
which enables the mind to rise lightly and easily out 
of its usual prison-house — Responsibility! 

Roving over these regions on foot — the sole mode 
of knowing them thoroughly, intimately — you seem 
transported to another planet, one better worth living 
on than any hitherto imagined. The air alone is 
charged with properties which make breathing appear 
a wholly new process, one meaning keener percep- 
tions, better thoughts, and finer sentiments. The sky 
takes aspects which make concentration upon them 
seem the all-sufficient end of roving. As for the 
mountain-forms themselves, now rooted in gigantic 
masses, now shooting up into countless pinnacles, 
now spreading over a seeming continent in waves of 
verdure, rock, or snow, with awe-inspiring glaciers 
streaking their sides, — they stir you with thoughts 
and emotions which baffle analysis, defy portrayal. 

Lake-scenery ! Sojourning amid those peaceful 
haunts, how delicious your reveries ! Without any 
defined aim you are continually lured to the water's 
edge. The transparency speaks to you in mystic 
tones ; the rippling soothes you with half-whispered 
promises ; the picturesque islands kindle your imagi- 
nation with desire for exploration of their charms. 
The haziness of distant hills transports you away from 
the present to halcyon days when those dim outlines 
and those delicate shades of color may be approached 
and enjoyed. To linger here, noting with ever-fresh 
delight the changes incident to earth, atmosphere, 
and sky — with this you are so content that you 
would fain linger forever. 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 14 > 

Sunrise ! This I fear you do not often see, — only 
at rare intervals, perhaps, a fragment of one from your 
window, or a larger portion from a stage-coach or a 
steamer-deck or a car-window. In justice let it be 
said, however, that when you do see even this much 
of sunrise, you are enchanted with its beauty, and 
inwardly vow you will see many more — entire ones — 
before you die. But sunset — this, here by the lake, 
you see daily, with satisfaction more or less complete 
according to your companionship, the weather, and 
your mood. One evening it is memorable because 
of a previous two days' storm that put you into close 
confinement. The sun has just disappeared, and there 
is a twilight of that brightness which makes us loath 
to believe that darkness is so soon to overshadow all 
now beheld. How softened and purified the sky ap- 
pears after the p/eceding turbulence, almost as if the 
whole were made anew! And of the entire scene, 
the thing that gives you most delight is a feathery 
rosy-purple cloud which looks like a wanderer from 
some fairy-realm. Another evening it is a vast ex- 
panse of clear blue, gradually growing paler towards 
the horizon, and melting into a faint orange. And 
there, just above that far, far-off horizon, are the dain- 
tiest cloud-structures ever conceived of, floating em- 
bodiments of so ravishing a beauty, that gazing upon 
it causes a sensation of pain. Perhaps there are rash 
moments when you are tempted to make a pen-sketch 
of phases which give you rare pleasure ; but you are 
quickly made to feel it a sad waste of enjoyment. 
No : sunset, moonlight, starlight — these, while fully 
and gladly absorbed into your being, refuse to be 
reproduced in visible form. 

13 



H' 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 



For a lengthened stay near a lake, I would choose 
one surrounded by hills rather than mountains. For 
if by the latter, it seems imbedded, sunk below our 
familiar earth's level. The dark hues of the water, 
its peculiarly deep aspect, its cold, clear reflection of 
the shores, — these, added to the continual straining of 
imagination to see beyond the mountain-walls, excite 
a sensation of mingled restraint and uneasiness. Save 
during a brief space in mid-day, when the shade is 
gratefully welcomed, we feel as if imprisoned, and 
long for more open, more extended views. 

Islands — these, whether of inland seas, whether 
lying close to the coast, or whether resting in mid- 
ocean far removed from the busy hum of great cen- 
tres of civilization — offer their own special fascination 
to the rover. " Islands" we say ? Yet, what are 
islands save parts of continents — either of those now 
existing, or of those once submerged — in themselves 
miniature repetitions of the parent-earth from which 
they have been in some rude or unexplained mode 
sundered? Visiting islands where the square miles 
are reckoned by the hundreds or thousands, we lose 
all sense of island. But when we go to those of di- 
minutive proportions, where drives, rides, or walks 
can show us the entire surface in a few hours, we 
receive quite another and that the true island expe- 
rience. There is then a sensation of novelty akin to 
that of ocean-travel. We are on the water, it is all 
around us, under us, — we imagine ourselves floating 
or resting on it, exposed to its vicissitudes and risks. 
There is, too, a vague sense of insecurity, a somewhat 
unpleasant consciousness of limitation and depend- 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 143 

ence, a feeling of isolation from the great activities 
and interests of the rest of the world. 

I should never want to live upon a small island, and 
have often wondered how any one could choose to do 
so. Probably no one does so choose. Who, even 
among so-called favored mortals, has choice of resi- 
dence in his hands ? Waking to conscious life, we, all 
of us, find ourselves — somewhere : and whether it be 
in frigid or temperate or tropical clime, on extensive 
continent or tiny islet, we must fain be — for the most 
part we are — content. 

Yet islands are charming places to visit. They 
offer a sort of compact, concentrated life peculiarly 
restful to one coming from the mainland. We find 
less traffic, less travelling, fewer strange people and 
new objects to become familiar with. We seem at 
last to have reached a spot where there is no hurry, 
no eagerness, no competition. Whether it be in mid- 
ocean, or near the coast, or in the bosom of a lake, its 
atmosphere is tranquillizing. I can imagine a dreamer 
possessed with a desire to embody his dreams in verse 
or prose, seeking a picturesque island and there find- 
ing the most favorable conditions for his pursuit. 
There, with very slight exertion, he finds that ab- 
straction from busy, practical doing which seems 
anywhere on a continent inseparable from even an 
obscure private life. There he has a continually- 
changing series of sky-pictures, of water-life, of atmos- 
pheric effects, of rock-structure, of vegetation, — more 
than enough for inspiration, added to that rare but 
blessed boon called leisure. Elsewhere — anywhere 
almost amid life's busy scenes — is not inspiration but 
too often a source of disquiet, of self-reproach ? 



1 44 FASCINA TION OF R O VING. 

Sauntering along a rock-bound island-coast, — what 
need for more than gazing, listening, absorbing ! Does 
it matter when ? where ? What if there is nothing 
left for description, nothing by which once-enjoyed 
scenes can be reproduced for other eyes, — nothing 
save shadowy impressions, very forcible, very real at 
the time of making, but not to be transplanted! We 
call up this or that phase of such roving as we would 
a particular person or picture once known or seen. 

Fancy yourself passing a summer vacation on one 
of the most beautiful islands in the Atlantic. One 
very sultry day at noon you find yourself walking 
away from the ocean towards the adjacent village. 
But, the exertion is too much in that dead-heated 
calm of the atmosphere, — suddenly, changing your 
course, you reach the ocean's brink. What a con- 
trast ! It is like entering a deliciously cool grotto 
after exposure to the blazing sun of the plains. The 
tide is high, and there is a fog entirely shutting out 
the sea, except two or three lazy breakers some feet 
below. On your right — the land side — the sun is 
shining faintly. On your left, fog, sky, and ocean are 
interblended, giving a fairy-like aspect to the whole. 
Just before you the cliffs and sundry frame cottages 
are dimly outlined. It is a scene of enchantment in 
mid-day, and one to which you willingly yield. 

The fog is not wet, briny, clammy fog, such as is 
found elsewhere. It is enchanted fog. It is of fine, 
soft consistency, cooled precisely to. the right tempera- 
ture to produce a half stimulating, half-soothing effect 
upon the senses. It throws you into a dreaminess so 
pleasant that you would fain prolong it indefinitely, — 
but now the fog begins to lift a little, disclosing bits 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 145 

of sky, avenues of water, the substantial rocks and 
earth. You stroll on beyond the few scattered cot- 
tages and bend your steps down a steep place to a 
ledge of rocks close to the water's QdgQ^ where you 
mean to sit and muse. Looking straight before you 
in descending, you notice a man standing below on a 
rock, perhaps twenty yards off. You take him to be 
a fisherman and too intent upon his work to notice 
you. Next you hear a shout somewhere near, and 
stand half doubting, half hesitating, whether to pro- 
ceed. Presently you see a man plunging into the water 
just near the supposed fisherman. 

You turn round abruptly and walk off half swear- 
ing — in a womanly way — at the effrontery of bathing 
here at noon when women and children are walking 
by. You find another place, and sit down on the 
turf. The ocean is of a dull, changeable, blue-green 
hue, although close to the shore are spots of vivid 
green caused by the patches of grass underneath. 
What variety of color in the rocks just below! Dark- 
gray, light-gray, white, russet-brown, the last pre- 
dominating. What produces the colors you cannot 
distinctly see, except the brown from sea-weed matted 
or trailed over. 

Restless, surging, eddying, incessantly approaching 
and receding, the sound just now is that of a distant 
waterfall. It is as if you heard without seeing, and 
the hearing gives forth a luxurious coolness. 

Another day you are taking your favorite ramble 
early in the afternoon. You have been unpleasantly 
warned, by somebody in authority at your lodgings, 
not to "go far;" so, grumbling a little at the inter- 
dict which limits you even in holidays, you go as far 

,3^ 



146 FASCINATION OF ROVING. 

as you dare, and then seat yourself on some rocks 
overlooking a striking ledge about twenty feet below. 
The distant ocean view to-day is not attractive. The 
horizon on every side is opaque, grayish-white : over- 
head the sky is light blue, with here and there dashes 
of white cloud. The ocean is unusually quiet, and in 
color of that changeable blue-white sheen which daz- 
zles the eye so unpleasantly. As a whole — a body, 
an entity, a mass — it has that peculiar stationary ap- 
pearance which is oppressive. Impossible, you mut- 
ter inwardly, that what you now see in such absolute 
repose could ever be wild, stormy, dangerous ! You 
do not like to look at it, — it has an uncanny, treach- 
erous aspect, like a smooth, calm face behind which 
lurks a vicious temper. 

You turn away from the whole, and with a sense 
of relief take in near views. Here, close to the shore, 
at your very feet, there is life enough in the water. 
What you just now called "a ledge" is, more clearly 
speaking, a group of large rocks dropped at random 
^ipparently. They form a little cove, a sort of en- 
closure belonging to, yet apart from, the ocean itself. 
In so small a space you never before have seen water 
•so full of vitality. Perhaps it is the contrast between 
this fraction of the element and the lethargy of the 
main body of it. The sun shines upon this little cove 
with almost painful brilliancy. You see pebbles of 
every size and hue, while the rocks are alternately 
exposed and submerged by the ebbing and flowing 
waves. The wind blows from the west and pretty 
strong, but it has no perceptible effect upon the w^hole 
mass of water. Only here in this one spot is there 
this incessant, playful, charming ripple. You want 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 147 

to be down there in it, stepping with bare feet from 
rock to rock, laving hands and face in its clear crystal 
beauty. The sea-weed and pebbles are transfigured 
by sunshine into a bewitching power, which lures you 
down to partake of the general joy. 

Another day you walk along dreamily until a spot 
strikes your fancy, then sit down, and grow dreamier 
still. It happens to be near a stately mansion stand- 
ing amid extensive grounds. But here on the edge 
of the bluff, seated on the soft green turf, facing the 
ocean, you forget the stately pile behind you. You 
look down upon huge masses of rock hurled from 
— Where? thrown up by — What? Rent asunder, 
cracked, splintered, they seem memorials of another 
era — one long ago lived — to have nothing in common 
with earthly interests of to-day. You pore over their 
seams, search into their clefts, shudder over their con- 
tortions as if intensity of gazing must finally extract 
their origin. The ocean to-day is neither very turbu- 
lent nor very tranquil. The surf comes in lazily, but 
steadily. It swells, gurgles, bubbles, tosses, making 
— so in your present mood it seems — the saddest, 
sweetest music that ever fell upon your ears. You 
could stay here hours, days, weeks — indefinite time — 
and never weary. 

The Ocean- Voice — as heard on this island — how 
infinite the variety in its monotones ! It rises, swells, 
dies away, — then sweeps over wonderful chords of 
tone, to which you listen with closed eyes and rever- 
ent eagerness. Never was a concert more enjoyed 
than this ! Then you look while listening. What 
incessant rippling, glimmering, surging, dashing ! Just 
now, after a lull of the waves, as if to gather fresh force, 



148 FASCINATION OF ROVING. 

a heavy surf comes in. Nearing the low mass of rocks 
at your feet, it takes a sudden leap — as if thrilled with 
joy, intoxicated with its own vitality — and dashes pell- 
mell over the rugged surface. 

Another time, late in the afternoon, you are on a 
wild, rugged Point, a weird pile of stupendous rock 
belonging to a villa close by. But the house is so far 
back, it seems by comparison so trivial an affair of 
wood, — one so easily uplifted and blown away by any 
chance gale, — that you scarcely notice it. It is a mere 
baby-house beside those rocks. In certain moods, this 
Point is your favorite one. Its bluntness and wildness 
are a relief to the wearisome platitudes of other scenes 
not far removed by time or space : there is a strength 
in it which makes you despise those scenes, and sends 
an appeal to the better self which longs to escape from 
such effeminacy. Seated here gazing into space — of 
ocean, sky, ether — you are transported out of little- 
ness into greatness. In these moments you are not 
the conventional woman your appearance would in- 
dicate, — you are something better, something nearer 
the natural woman. You feel that there has been 
enough contact with the world, enough observation 
of its human denizens, enough reflection upon their 
instincts, ways, and deeds. Solitude like this length- 
ened out into weeks, months — perhaps years — would 
open to you new powers, new hopes, new possibilities. 
Can this not be deduced by noting the effect of these 
few fleeting moments ? 

The surf is always peculiarly boisterous around this 
part of the island. You are sitting on a ledge jutting 
out between two cavern-like openings below, where 
the waves dash in and out with startling vehemence, 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 149 

throwing up spray into your very face. You have 
been here often before, but never saw the waves so 
varied in their fierce beauty ; it is as if every atom had 
a new and unwonted energy. Beyond the shore the 
general aspect of ocean is calm, its color a dull blue ; 
the sky just overhead is light clear blue, with a faint 
pinkish tinge bordering the horizon ; there is no sun- 
light, and the breeze would be too strong and bracing 
for a delicate frame, — you it suits so well that you can- 
not breathe in enough of it ; the moon on your left 
is like a white cloud medallion with one-third cut 
away, — the whole scene is one you would fain retain 
in memory for days to come, days far removed from 
such a spot. 

What would you not give if one you are thinking 
of were here by your side to enjoy this tumult of 
waters! Wave, spray, froth,— all are quivering under 
ceaseless change, under overwhelming force. You are 
awed by the turbulence and the mystery of motion, 
by the half sense of danger there on your rock-seat, 
— danger not positive, but possible. One step either 
side, one lurch, one second's dizziness, — and you 
would be precipitated headlong into the seething gulf 
below ; yet, you sit close, close to the edge, even lean 
over and look down to catch the full, fearful effect. 

What delight in these island-rambles,— especially in 
hours where there is nobody or nothing waiting for 
you ! And what other rambles— longer and more 
distant, by sunset, by night, in storm — you would 
take, were it not for your woman's fears ! No founda- 
tion for them— so reason assures you — yet were you 
eighty years old it would be the same. They are real 
fears — real to your imagination — they cripple your 



ISO 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 



roving propensities, interfere greatly with even an 
ordinary walk. 

Dear old Ocean ! Never before — so it seems to you 
— have you known and loved it so deeply as since on 
this lovely island ! Oddly enough, you prefer sun- 
light to moonlight. Explicable, apparently, in that 
you have confessed to woman's fears even by day; 
but, apart from this, the variety of beauty and melody 
is greater by sunlight. 

Rocks at night look black, gloomy, suggestive of 
evil. In sunlight they take a thousand hues and 
forms, each reflective of new wonder. Particles of 
moss, tangles of sea-weed, a group of insects, a pass- 
ing cloud, swift-flying zephyrs, the irregular action of 
the waves, — all these invest them with special charms. 
No — even with a companion — the right one — sunlight 
here on the ocean's brink is preferable to moonlight. 

Ocean-Travel ! Perhaps of all those who may glance 
at this page, scarcely one may be found who has not 
had a personal knowledge of its vicissitudes. Whether 
the whole prove a season of delight or of misery de- 
pends, of course, upon all those mysteriously-inter- 
woven facts called health, circumstances, purposes, 
and education. Yet, from the way in which it affects 
travellers may be gleaned a pretty sure testimony of 
their characters. 

Put a man of sensitive temperament on a crowded 
steamboat — if for only twenty-four hours — and in- 
stantly he is attacked with that peculiar mingling 
of physical and mental discomfort called nostalgia. 
What causes it? Is it the strange forms and faces 
incessantly passing and repassing, each one appear- 



FAS cm A TION OF RO VING, \ 5 1 

ing, thinking, feeling, doing, according to his own 
nature? Is it the treacherous-looking water, or the 
problematical machinery? Is it the general sense of 
risk which presses upon the mind ? Probably, it is 
not only one, but all of these causes combined; mainly, 
however, this mass of people of all nationalities and 
conditions. Not one of them, perhaps, has ever before 
been seen, — yet in other places how many other thou- 
sands ! It induces a singular sense of loneliness to 
be thrown thus suddenly into a living throng. Un- 
consciously, almost, he finds himself wondering about 
them in a desultory way. Who are they? What 
are they ? Where have they been ? What are they 
doing when not here? And to these questionings 
come only such answers as a partial knowledge of 
human nature gives. Knowing what a few other 
people are, he knows what these are, and can learn 
something from outward signs. Much of past history 
and present condition can be learned from human 
faces, — but how much? Could you see your own 
face for the first time as that of a stranger, what would 
you read there ? The same that you now know of its 
history, or would you be baffled by its seeming con- 
tradictions ? 

Now put that man on an ocean-steamer, where all 
the features of the above are found in exaggerated 
form, and the results are in proportion. Not that he 
may not wish to go, or have not some conception of 
the beauty and grandeur about him. No — the keenest 
appreciation of these often coexists with distasteful 
conditions. 

People who cross and re-cross the ocean — say the 
Atlantic — speak of it as ** nothing," " an affair of ten 



152 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 



days," " a pleasure-jaunt," " safer than travelling on 
land." Some people, doubtless, do grow thus accus- 
tomed to it. Others, however, do not. Without making 
any special ado about it, they get ready, pack, and 
start ; but they never lose the sensation of its being 
an event of importance. Births, deaths, and sea- 
voyages may be classed together. We expect them, 
make preparation, have everything in readiness. Yet, 
when the moment arrives, the event, in either case, 
awakens as many conflicting thoughts and emotions 
as if wholly unexpected. 

" There is no danger," we are told: yet, upon leaving 
harbor for a long ocean voyage a peculiar and not 
unnatural feeling of awe steals over the mind of even 
the veteran traveller. Lessened as this feeling is by 
repetition of the experience, a thoughtful mind never 
wholly loses it. 

Nor would such callousness be desirable. What 
does it imply when we become insensible to the changes 
which once powerfully affected us? There is a moral 
decline as well as a physical one, a wearing out of 
feeling no less than of nerves and tissues. Those who 
have looked deepest into life dread the psychological 
decrease of strength far more than the physical one. 

What excitement just before the ship casts anchor! 
What running to and fro ! What talking, laughing, 
advising, entreating ! What gazing upon and scruti- 
nizing of others ! And apart from all this, the practical 
part of the little drama goes on just as it has gone on 
hundreds of times before this special passage. 

People not passengers are notified that they must 
go ashore. Cheeks grow pale, eyes suffuse, hands are 
clasped, last looks and last kisses given ! Now for 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 



53 



the first time we see who are to be our fellow-pas- 
sengers. Nearly all are grouped on the upper deck, 
looking down upon the pier where those just parted 
from are standing, waiting, watching, and — perhaps un- 
consciously — praying. The young married woman on 
that upper deck clings to her husband's arm, trembling 
a little, weeping a little, hardly knowing why she does 
either. The unmarried woman stands calm and self- 
possessed, glancing now and then at the people near 
or below on the pier. Does she not leave one heart 
to regret her? Is there no one to bid her farewell 
or wish her God-speed ? Possibly, there is one who 
feels too acutely to be here at this hour, — possibly, 
there has been a parting too painful even to think of 
here in public. 

Captain, pilot, officers, crew, — all are in their places. 
And at this moment, probably, they are the only 
people who feel perfectly at home. 

The ship moves ! Slowly, majestically, she leaves 
her moorings and steams out of the harbor. If it be 
your first passage, you experience a sensation of min- 
gled pleasure and awe which can never be repeated 
with the same degree of intensity. It is a newness of 
life, a something often heard of now realized, a grati- 
fication of a perhaps long-cherished wish suddenly 
confronted with its attendant risks. As the shores 
recede and one familiar object after another grows 
dim, you involuntarily feel a deep, longing affection 
for them. You regret, you speculate, hope, fear. 
Were it possible, you would even gladly return to 
those shores, abandon your journey. 

The first day out ! In all, except the very young, 



154 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 



very happy, or very callous, it induces the most aggra- 
vated symptoms of nostalgia. You are in a crowd 
of strange people ; you feel positive physical discom- 
fort from the motion of the ship, from its odors, from 
the incessant jarring of the machinery. You have a 
sense of helplessness, a certainty of monotony, and 
that dull aching of head and heart consequent upon 
parting. You are conscious of unequivocal misery 
which extorts deep sighs and fervent wishes that the 
day were well over. 

Within the first hour, two or three of the passen- 
gers retire below, and every succeeding hour takes 
a few more from the ranks. If not ill, you shrink 
from encountering the untried quarters awaiting you 
below; you linger on deck, chatting with your party, 
possibly, but wrapped in such gloomy thoughts that 
you hardly know yourself. Worst of all is the reali- 
zation of your separation from ! How could 

you — you shudderingly ask yourself — voluntarily put 
this great gulf between you and your affection ! And- 
every hour, every minute of the coming days, is to 
widen and deepen that distance ! You had often 
imagined the immensity and might of the ocean, but 
the conception was nothing to this dread reality now 
encompassing you. Only a few hours — hours which 
at home speed on all too swiftly — yet it seems many 
long days since you left the land. If this is crossing 
the ocean, you have enough — more than enough of it 
already. A wild wish to turn back, to leave the ship, 
to touch shore, again takes possession of you. At 
last, just as the acme of nostalgia is reached, you are 
overpowered with a drowsiness which sends you down 
to your state-room. 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 



155 



Happy those who can sleep well on board ship ! 
Willingly we sink into the temporary death which is 
to bring us a renewed vitality, and through that a 
more beautiful, more inspiring vista of life. Who 
thus revivified would complain of wind or weather, 
of dull companions, of monotonous pursuits! Who, 
upon first awaking out of sound, healthful sleep, does 
not smile at the dark fancies and dread fears of the 
previous eve! Even now, on this first morrow of ocean- 
life there is an amused perception of surroundings as 
viewed from the "upper berth" where you have just 
spent the night. You feel as if you were on a shelf 
in a closet, and marvel at your state of comfort in 
this odd place. You are not positive even whether 
your being there at all is not an hallucination, such as 
people have sometimes upon first awaking out of un- 
usually heavy sleep. Gradually you come to a sense 
of certainty as to your whereabouts. The first night 
at sea has passed, and this closet is to be your sleep- 
ing-chamber for many nights to come. Glancing 
round, you note the condensed appearance of things, 
of sofa, wash-stand, mirror : your clothes even seem 
somehow to take up much less space than usual, — 
nay, you yourself seem reduced in size, lying there 
on that narrow shelf so close to the ceiling. 

After all, you muse, how little actual space one 
mortal needs ! Then, you wonder how your room- 
mate, lying on the shelf underneath, fared through the 
night. She is a stranger to you; you saw her only for 
a moment the previous evening, long enough to note 
that she was very stout, — and to regret the fact. Un- 
usual bulk in that closet seems out of place, unreason- 
able. Now, as you are meditating climbing down and 



156 FASCINATION OF ROVING. 

dressing, you regret it more than you did before, for 
the starthng possibiHty of contact confronts you. Two 
women — one very stout — dressing in that place at the 
same time ! Preposterous ! So you plan a little be- 
fore making a move. Peeping over the ledge of your 
shelf, you find that your companion is still sleeping 
very quietly (what a mercy she does not snore!), so 
you conclude this is an interval not to be lost. You 
rise, and begin the process, — but oh, so carefully, so 
noiselessly, for fear of the strange pair of eyes so dis- 
agreeably close being suddenly opened and aimed at 
you. Not a pleasing task this first morning toilette 
in your state-room. Your things are all there, yet 
they seem equally hard to find and awkward to adjust. 
Possibly, you are never remarkably quick at this mat- 
ter, — liable to take relays of day-dreaming, which in- 
terfere with getting it done, — but now, when you are 
particularly anxious to reach the upper stratum of 
your floating abode, you seem beset by divers hin- 
drances. Finally, it is finished — this first ocean- toilette 
— and you reach the deck and the fresh air. Remem- 
bering your condition of the previous evening, you are 
almost surprised at your comparative buoyancy this 
morning. You feel more at home, can at least find 
your way from your state-room to the saloon and to 
the deck. You are grateful that the first day is over, 
and anticipate pleasanter experiences from those to 
come. 

The second day out may, as regards the human 
economy of life on ship-board, be considered an epit- 
ome of the rest. 

If the traveller be sea-sick, he is a pitiable victim of 
the worst of physical ills. Day after day, varied ex- 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 



157 



ternally by more or less sun or rain, cold or heat, wind 
or calm, brings to the sufferer only augmented suffer- 
ing. If through persistent coaxing his friends get 
him up on the deck, each attempt lasts only a few 
moments. The exertion, the glare, the sight of the 
water, the drooping tendency of the head, all combine 
to make him wish himself back in his narrow, but, by 
comparison, comfortable berth. If spared the dire 
miseries of sea-sickness, ocean-travellers experience 
various grades of comfort and discomfort, ease of mind 
and anxiety. Some there are who would never be 
recognized by friends ashore, so great is the transfor- 
mation in appearance, disposition, and manner. The 
why it is, will hardly be capable of a satisfactory an- 
swer. But, the fact is indisputable that many people 
very lovable on land become very hateful people when 
on board ship. Rationally viewed, how indeed is it 
possible for men or women to be the same under all 
circumstances ! Here, for instance, on a large ocean 
steamer are collected several hundreds of people from 
all parts of the civilized world. Their being there is 
semi-voluntary, semi-arbitrary, wholly unavoidable. A 
hermit loses all the advantages of society : a traveller 
is compelled to participate in all the disadvantages of 
society. 

These fellow-passengers are forced to see one an- 
other daily, hourly, almost minute-ly. They associate 
tacitly, if not actually. They may be wholly dissimilar 
in rank, aims, or special qualifications ; yet tempora- 
rily, they are bound by the strongest of all ties — self- 
interest — to consider their mutual well-being. The 
interest or curiosity awakened by such observation is 
from causes none the less potent because indefinable. 

14* 



158 FASCINATION OF ROVING. 

Here on a single ship traversing an ocean may be seen 
the same characteristics which distinguish a human 
assemblage in any part of the world. As one of the 
amusements on ship-board costing the least exertion 
of mind or body, inspection of fellow-passengers is de- 
servedly popular. Whether at table, in the saloon, on 
deck, or below in the cabins, we are constantly in close 
proximity with strangers, whom we involuntarily scan 
with eye, ear, and intuition. One is bright, buoyant, 
and attractive; a second is dull and morose; a third 
is coarse and vulgar, or glum and ill-tempered. More- 
over, these various types are for the most part the 
natural fruit of circumstances, and in that sense wholly 
irresponsible for their flaws and undeserving of merit 
for their graces. 

People carry their homes and their characters abroad 
with them more than they think. To note the differ- 
ent groups scattered over the deck on a fine clear day 
is a never-ending source of interest. Here is a family 
which attracted your attention the day of sailing. It 
consists of father, mother, nurse, baby, two little girls, 
and one boy. From some of their preparations it is 
to be inferred that they are new to ocean-travelling, 
for among miscellaneous traps are four hoops and a 
pair of stilts! Nice playthings, truly, for ship-board ! 
The father is a man of about thirty, tall, gaunt, care- 
worn, mainly, it strikes you, from incessant looking 
after wife and four troublesome little ones. His 
countenance plainly expresses this one absorbing 
thought. The wife and mother is not pleasing to 
the eye ; this not because the face is unsymmetrical, 
but because it has neither animation nor goodness. 
And the children — from baby up — partake of both 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 159 

parents' characteristics. One of the Httle girls — the 
oldest — carries a huge doll, larger by far than the baby- 
sister, and apparently as heavy ; for, a ^^\n minutes 
after coming on board she hands it over to her mother, 
declaring she can hold it no longer. And every time 
this group is noticed the same characteristics appear. 
The father — poor man — seems over-anxious to provide 
for the comfort of all, yet is evidently sorely at a loss 
for the how. The children, of course, find no use 
for their hoops, but by way of indemnification manifest 
insatiable hunger and unquenchable thirst. Their 
guardians see fit to indulge them without limitation, 
and the human cubs make no scruple as to annoying 
their fellow-passengers with debris and spillings. Even 
in their clothing there is an odd lack of fitness; the 
little girls wearing ugly yellow-striped frocks, and, 
although the weather is cold, no outside garment of 
any kind. 

There are other groups, some of less commonplace 
kinds. There are two odd-looking men to whom 
you take an instinctive dislike, perhaps because of an 
aggressive bearing, an offensive independence, an irri- 
tating ignoring of their fellow-passengers. Brothers 
they evidently are, and nearly of the same age and 
build. Both are of Saxon type, the elder having hair 
and complexion somewhat darker than the other. 
Both wear gray slouch hats, generally pulled down 
over the face, giving what on land would be called a 
suspicious look. The younger brother has a thick 
yellow moustache, and hair — what little can be seen 
under that ugly hat — of the same color. Their ways 
are altogether different from those of other gentlemen 
on board. They never seem to notice other people, 



1 60 FA SCINA TION OF RO VING. 

never bring seats for ladies, never help them up-stairs 
or across the deck. They are almost always together, 
and seem wholly indifferent to the people around them. 
They appear like men who have endured, and are still 
enduring, more than the ordinary cares of life, either 
domestic, political, or pecuniary. They evince a more 
than average restlessness, which finds a vent in con- 
tinual marching up and down the deck, side by side, 
but looking neither to the right nor to the left, and 
rarely talking to each other. The passengers, gen- 
erally, regard them with a feeling of half-interest, half- 
dread; ladies, especially, do not hesitate to express 
dislike even to their presence. 

Strange to say, you become acquainted with these 
two odd-looking men after being ten or twelve days 
on the ship. It is just the day before landing, and to 
your astonishment you find one of them — the younger 
one — unusually attractive in manner and conversation. 
His voice is one of the most charming ever heard, and 
you feel profound regrets at not having known him 
earlier in the passage. 

The irksome publicity of life on ship-board is for 
some natures even less endurable than physical ills. 
Imagine yourself crossing the Atlantic on a French 
steamer, when the question, " Where to go ?" is pe- 
culiarly difficult to answer. One day especially comes 
to mind. The ladies' cabin is insufferably close, the 
saloon no less so and densely crowded besides, the 
deck nippingly cold. Your state-room — although 
yours only by half-possession — strikes you as offering 
better chances for privacy, if not for comfort, than any 
other corner. It is very far down below, the approach 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. i6i 

to it very dark, very forlorn. In it, however, are, by 
way of furniture, a camp-stool and a narrow red velvet 
sofa, which may be improvised into either a couch or 
a table according to need. Not a cheerful place, but — 
your room-mate being absent — it is at least a quiet, a 
retired one : it offers a semblance of comfort after the 
noisy talking, the tramping up and down, the card- 
playing and general confusion of up-stairs. But even 
here interruption soon comes. Between your state- 
room and the one opposite is a passage not more than 
two feet wide. Into this passage comes a foreigner of 
slovenly aspect, who, in going into the opposite domi- 
cile, honors you with a neighborly foreign stare. This 
is repeated two or three times as he passes and re- 
passes, and — although neither very youthful nor very 
prudish — it makes you uncomfortable. You glance 
first at the door, then at the port-hole of your room. 
Impossible to shut the one without being suffocated, or 
to open the other without being drowned. A curtain is 
the only alternative. Glowing with this brilliant idea, 
you call in the active, droll-looking little Frenchman 
who plays the part of steward in this ship-drama of 
many acts. You explain your wants. "Anything will 
do," you say to him, whereupon Jacques straightway 
transfers one of the berth-curtains to the doorway. 
Favors on ship-board require unusual gratitude. But 
hardly are your thanks expressed when another un- 
looked-for difficulty puts a damper upon sanguine 
anticipations of privacy. The motion of the ship is 
not great, and yet the sea dashes up against the 
port-hole in a vexatiously disagreeable manner. One 
second it is light, the next dark, — a process which, 
incessantly repeated, produces anything but a pleasant 



l62 FASCINATION OF ROVING. 

sensation. No hope of remedy for this ! Your In- 
ventive faculty — at no time very keen — is now utterly 
at fault. Doing nothing, you cannot possibly stay in 
that so-called room, so very reluctantly you return to 
general quarters above, where, if you suffer from pub- 
licity and ennui, you at least may counteract them with 
air and light. Here at least you may do three things, 
— observe sky and ocean; ruminate upon past, present, 
and future; study people. 

Imagine yet another incident that may serve to 
illustrate the unexpected situations travelling may 
appoint for us. Owing to the unbearable closeness 
of your state-room, you find it impossible to remain 
there more than an hour at a time, even during the 
night, without great suffering. What to do ? There 
is no other room to be had, and after remaining up- 
stairs on deck or in saloon until nearly midnight, 
What to do ? becomes really a serio-comic question. 
After consultation with your travelling companion, it 
is decided that you shall retire below towards mid- 
night, but afterwards — when other people are quietly 
settled in their respective quarters — remount and take 
a position in the little box-like enclosure up-stairs 
midships, where two doors offer exit to the upper 
deck. It is something unutterably dreary to make 
preparations of extra wraps and head-gear to go up 
into that public passage for the night. Sometimes 
during preparation the steward comes to your door 
with peremptory orders to put out the light, forcing 
you to fumble about in the dark for the wraps so 
necessary up in that cold place. Some nights it is 
very stormy, the ship whirling about wildly, and 
heavy seas sweeping over the deck within a few rods 



FAS C IN A TION OF RO VI NG. 1 63 

of you. Besides this, there are always men walking 
backwards and forwards, talking and laughing — so 
near to you it seems with only the thin woodwork 
between — and others passing your chair on their way 
down or up. Some of them, you know, drink freely, 
and you shrink into your wraps with nervous dread 
as the possibility of intrusion forces itself upon you. 
The first two or three nights you never close your 
eyes for fear; but, afterwards fatigue engenders a reck- 
lessness which enables you to sleep until four or five 
in the morning, when at the first sound of deck-scrub- 
bing you gather up your traps and retire to your den. 
Odd situation for a young woman, truly ! Appar- 
ently well, and behaving like other people during the 
day, yet at midnight trudging up-stairs with shawls 
and pillows to take a sea-chair in a corner of that 
forlorn passage-way on deck ! Without any doubt, 
the servants and others who chance to observe your 
movements think you either insane or so dangerously 
whimsical that they deem it imprudent to question or 
cross you, for you are never once accosted or dis- 
turbed. After getting used to it, you remember having 
very pleasant dreams of roving over lovely country 
regions where the atmosphere was of extraordinary 
purity, — this last illusion being induced doubtless by 
the strong ocean-breeze coming in the door and blow- 
ing directly in your face. 

The Ocean, — that ever-changing, ever-monotonous, 
and, alas, often treacherous gulf! Hour after hour 
we gaze into its mysterious face, striving in vain to 
read those enigmatical characters. To-day so calm 
and placid, to-morrow so angry, dark, and tumultuous! 



1 64 FASCINATION OF ROVING. . 

Whatever its phase, there is an inexplicable fascination 
about it, a fixed realization of its ruthless might. We 
speak of it possibly in familiar tones, call ourselves 
fearless, trustful — or fatalists — and yet the question, 
Shall we reach the other side safely? must remain 
many long days and nights unanswered. 

*' No danger on the ocean!'' Who that has made 
ev^en a single passage, and a so-called good one, could 
echo that flippant assertion ! Indeed, whoever reflects 
at all, can scarcely for an instant lose sight of the many 
risks which can neither be avoided nor run away from. 
With so much time for revery, mental pictures of 
calamities that have been and might — ah, so quickly! 
— again be, rise up, spite of reason, to disturb our peace 
of mind. On land, where, amid ordinary circumstances, 
there is rarely perceptible danger, anxious thoughts are 
easily kept at bay. At sea, where the surroundings 
are at once contrary to all preconceived ideas of com- 
fort and vividly suggestive of hazard, anxiety becomes 
but too familiar a sensation. 

To hear of the ocean, to read of it, — these to some 
people are enough. But whoever would drink in its 
full majesty would never be content w^ithout a personal 
experience. Standing at the stern of the vessel, at 
night, gazing at that wonderful pathway, — could any 
description give an adequate idea of the thing itself? 
Standing there for many moments, thought and feeling 
are so strained as to produce emotions analogous to 
pain. 

Days of storm on the ocean, — can anything read or 
imagined equal the sensations of such an experience? 
You are making a winter passage, and several rough 
days and nights enable you fully to realize the fact. 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. 165 

Finally comes the *' roughest day yet," so that, although 
usually dubbed a "good sailor," as far as the phrase is 
applicable to women, you can scarcely keep your feet, 
and gladly drop down upon the first vacant sofa and 
keep your head low. Presently your escort comes in 
and urges you to get your thickest wraps and come 
on deck; "there is something to see." Reaching the 
deck, you are surprised to find the sky perfectly clear, 
but all else signifies a gale of the stiffest kind. Every- 
thing is strapped down tight, not a shred loose any- 
where, yet the wind howls through the rigging as if 
bent upon tearing it to pieces. The ship rolls and 
pitches in helpless misery, and every few seconds 
heavy seas dash over the bulwarks, washing the decks 
in energetic but rude style. Two or three successive 
streams rushing past and under your sea-chair make 
you think of retreat as the most prudent course ; but, 
the alternative of going below and losing both fresh 
air and grandeur tempts you to postpone going as long 
as possible. One lady besides yourself remains, several 
gentlemen are standing or sitting near, when suddenly 
a huge wave pours over the wheel-house like a cataract, 
completely drenching everything and everybody, in- 
cluding yourself The gentlemen laugh heartily at 
the general plight, but you and the other lady are 
rather subdued by the unexpected douche. Hood, 
veil, shawl, sack, dress, — all are saturated with the ice- 
cold brine. Comical enough to see those two dripping 
forms making their way through the crowded saloon 
to their quarters. After that it seems advisable to 
remain below. All day long you hear the seas wash- 
ing the decks, and several times during the afternoon 
streams of water come pouring through the hatchways 

15 



l66 FASCINATION OF ROVING. 

into the saloon. Then before and during dinner what 
noise and confusion among the crockery ! Castors, 
glasses, dishes, bottles, — all sliding about in every 
direction, and now and then, as a climax, comes a 
tremendous prolonged crash, awaking doubts as to 
a single whole piece being left. 

On yet another day of storm there is less diversion 
and more anxiety. The season is spring ; there have 
been intervening days of comparative quiet, which 
give increased effect to the present turbulence. Can 
it be that this is the same ocean, this huge illimitable 
mass of angry waters ! How they toss, surge, and roll, 
desperately resolved, it would seem, upon engulfing 
every atom within their reach ! 

Look at those mammoth waves, how they rise and 
sweep and break around the ship as she bravely works 
her way through ! Staunch and powerful is the craft, 
fitted, men say, to cope with wind and wave however 
tumultuous. Yet, in this hour, as she plunges forward 
or rolls from side to side, now rising, now sinking, 
now giving a spasmodic leap, now halting, as if utterly 
exhausted — what a frail thing she seems ! Will she, 
can she live through it ? Again and again this doubt 
arises, so unequal seems the struggle between her and 
her opponent. Nature overrules all, you murmur. 
You believe it : but never before did it flash upon you 
with so great an emphasis. Human life dependent 
upon that frail ship ! Should any part of that compli- 
cated machinery give way; should the strain from the 
elements be too intense; should any unforeseen con- 
tingency cripple her strength, — where should those 
living souls turn for succor ? To the life-boats ? Large 
and safe they once looked. But that was when the 



FASCINATION OF ROVING. i^j 

ocean was smooth and placid, wholly unlike the ocean 
now beheld. Now, were the life boats the sole place 
of refuge, small indeed would be the chances of 
rescue! No life-boat could live in so wild a sea as 
that! One single wave would swamp a hundred of 
them and leave no sign. When the climax of storm is 
reached, there is a cessation of jesting and grumbling. 
Every human being is impressed with the solemnity 
of the question which in less than twenty-four hours 
may be decided. Are we in danger ? is the question, 
which most men ask themselves, and which a few ask 
others. We are in imminent danger: is the resolute 
conviction of all who know upon what a slender 
thread of destiny even the staunchest ship depends. 
But, whether in danger or in safety, the storm is a 
spectacle which must not be lost. You desire to be 
vis-a-vis with King Storm. The fury into which he 
has lashed himself, the giant waves which do his bid- 
ding, the sensations and sentiments inspired by them, 
— all give a memorable illustration of one of Nature's 
forces. 



vxx. 
EGOISTS. 



"He is a thorough egoist." To say this — in fitting 
accents of righteous indignation — imph'es to ears gen- 
erally that the individual alluded to is a condensation 
of selfishness — in its worst phases. 

Society, it is true, has its own way of dealing with 
the question. If the egoist have a reputation — for 
wealth, power, or genius — his egoism is smilingly 
accepted : but if he be obscure — simply the average 
mortal — he is treated with proper indifference or 
scorn. Doubtless, society, as a great corporation, is 
quite right to consult its own interests ; for, it cannot 
be denied that egoists, while interesting as characters, 
are troublesome as society members. 

Individuality may be considered a good only when 
it falls in with our own particular humors or tastes : 
any other kind is likely to act as an irritant and call 
forth disagreeable comment. Still, we cannot, on that 
account, afford to disavow the principle involved, and, 
whether pleasing or otherwise, must sometimes bestow 
upon it a few grains of reflection. Floating opinions 
— so most of us find — are the easiest to take, but in 
the long run they do not prove as nourishing as those 
more difficult of access. Facts and fancies often come 
1 68 



EGOISTS. 



169 



to be so oddly mixed that very good people are found 
lending credence to the base things said of some of 
the noblest natures. 

Egoists may not be as bad as they seem : perhaps, 
at heart, they are not worse than their accusers, but 
only differently endowed. At all events they are 
worth considering, and as fairly as possible. 

An egoist is one who holds fast to the something 
which distinguishes himself from the myriads of other 
selves around him. Without this prop, life is a meas- 
ureless tissue of questioning without answering: with 
it, life opens before us with wonders, far enough be- 
yond comprehension, it is true, but wholly within 
range of study. 

Egoism explains the law of Difference, — that which 
makes you what you are, others what they are. Shall 
we expect a musician to delight in mathematics ? a 
sensualist to practise asceticism? a poet to be a tac- 
tician? a philosopher to become absorbed in trade? 
Why there should be this law of Difference — why 
generosity, love, and tenderness should be counter- 
balanced by meanness, hatred, and cruelty — cannot 
be explained. Nature never asks us to solve insolva- 
ble questions : in the day of reckoning — which is every 
day — she does not ask : 

How much of life have you comprehended? but 
simply : 

How much of yourself has come to the light ? 
how much been applied to the truths you know, to 
the impulses you feel, to the inspiration given you ? 

A single human life! what is it? of how much 
15* 



I^O EGOISTS. 

value? Not much, truly, if regarded merely in the 
light of a thinking or of a working power. In that 
light what matters it if thousands or tens of thousands 
perish by war, by disease, or by that too frequent 
subterfuge for human criminality, "accident"! But 
if, in the battle, or on the sinking ship, one man 
of transcendent character be lost — what then ! The 
individual in that case is no longer a particle, a 
skeleton, a thing to be anatomized, a fagot of bones, 
a handful of dust. But he is this — a force in the 
world before which the mightiest structures, the 
most marvellous inventions, the most stupendous 
convulsions of nature, dwindle into a nine days' 
wonder. 

If life be merely a scheme by which nations are to 
alternate in ruling and being ruled ; in revelling in 
plenty and groaning under famine; in the building up 
and in the destroying of proud cities, — then life is a 
very poor affair, one not worth the trouble of sup- 
porting. 

If, on the other hand, life be a system which recog- 
nizes in every human being the possession ofa self, 
and the possibility of a self-mastery, — then life is worth 
all the sacrifices the loftiest principles can suggest. 
The hope born of egoism is to character what strong 
wine is to the weary traveller — a means of temporary 
invigoration. For permanent strength, more is needed : 
the self must be identified with action. 

Egoists have a creed which reads somewhat in this 
form : 

I believe in Intuition. 
I believe in Impulse. 



EGOISTS. 



171 



I believe in Moods. 

I believe in Aspiration. 

I believe that these forces combined produce the 
occult activity called Soul, one destined to sway the 
world ages after every trace of bone and muscle has 
disappeared. 

I believe that faithfulness to my creed constitutes 
the highest virtue : that disloyalty to it constitutes the 
basest sin. 

I believe in punishment for such disloyalty, the form 
it assumes being as Protean as imagination can con- 
ceive, as passion can execute. 

If false to my creed, I deserve to suffer every tor- 
ment that outraged Reason can inflict. If to be 
''cursed" mean more, then I deserve that. 

Intuition prompts the child to do or not to do, to 
take or not to take certain things : with every year of 
its life that germ of character is either increasing or 
dwindling away. Upon this depend the issues called 
happy or unhappy childhood. 

In the adult, intuition forms conclusions without 
apparent reasoning. It is a gift analogous to that of 
the poet or musician : like that, it baffles investigation, 
startles us by its daring leaps. In the uneducated 
man intuition may be so blinded by passion, or 
drugged with traditions, as to be wholly unreliable. 
But, in the man of trained intelligence, it acquires 
marvellous accuracy, enabling him to establish close 
relations with other minds — with those unlike as well 
as like his own. He knows others, not by a record of 
special words, or deeds, or purposes ; he knows them 
through minute lines, delicate shades of color, gentle 
vibrations of sound. 



1^2 EGOISTS. 

Intuition is the microscope of character. In a prac- 
tised hand directed by a clear brain, it discerns with 
ease facts which seem inscrutable to the uninitiated. 

Two people meet in society. Intuition instantly 
produces mutual interest, although then and there it 
cannot be gratified. Eyes and ears are on all sides. 
Others claim their attention, their words, their smiles. 
After a few moments' converse an interruption comes, 
and the thread of mental communion, just beginning 
to gain firmness, is broken. The usual routine fol- 
lows. Questioning and replying, both without hearti- 
ness ; a wishing on the part of earnest natures to be 
away; a responsibility in the staying; a sensation of 
genuine relief when the moment of departure arrives. 
This is the form of society. Underneath this, lies a 
pleasant reality. Intuition has established a relation- 
ship between those two people. If they meet again, 
there will be no feeling of strangeness. If they do 
not meet again, the remembrance remains ; no word 
spoken, no feeling felt, is forgotten ; so from amid all 
the weariness of routine, one golden grain is extracted. 

Intuition brings men and women before us in their 
natural colors. In its light the appurtenances of wealth 
dwindle away, the factitious advantages of position fall 
into their respective places : externals, of whatsoever 
kind, are regarded as simply belonging to, not as being 
the men and women themselves. Intuition is the 
source of those curious effects produced by personal 
presence. I know two men of the same nationality, 
same social position, and of similar mental acquire- 
ments. But in their personality there is so glaring 
a contrast that, save for illustration, it were profanity 
to mention them in the same breath. F.'s presence 



EGOISTS. 173 

bears with it discomfort, unrest, irritability. Children 
shrink from asking him questions, people refrain from 
making a request of him, and involuntarily, when he 
appears, close the doors of thought and feeling. A 
few moments in this presence cause in me a psycho- 
logical ferment, which hours of reasoning cannot allay. 
Even when removed from it, the recollection haunts 
me painfully. 

Let H. enter the room, and lo, what a metamorphosis 
in effects ! His presence wooes back the equanimity 
which fled before the other. There is peace where 
anon was unrest, harmony succeeds jangling discord. 
To encounter that presence, miles of fatigue would be 
endured, scores of obstacles overcome, countless buf- 
fetings endured. What is the feeling when we unex- 
pectedly hear one of our own long-cherished opinions 
expressed by other lips ? Is it not an instantaneous 
creation of a sympathetic chain between mind and 
mind ? B.'s personal presence makes known the ex- 
istence of such a chain, not only between mind and 
mind, but between soul and soul. 

Intuition reveals this connection : it cannot be 
handled like, a fact of coarser mould, nor can it come 
in contact with prudential reasoning without being 
tarnished. So delicate is intuition that often while we 
deliberate over its acceptance, the gift is withdrawn. 
Flowing from a source purer than judgment, it sub- 
mits to neither custom nor dictation. One simple 
being among the pushing, hurrying crowd who has 
uniformly been true to intuition is a hero of humanity. 
It implies a continual stepping forward, a perceptible 
ascent, finally a safe arrival at the goal called Indi- 
viduality. Yet the world scoffs at intuition mainly 



1^4 EGOISTS. 

because it interferes with the easy-going doctrine 
familiarly known as " the natural course of events." 

Intuition is to the soul what sensation is to the body. 
A blaze of light hurts the eye : the eye quickly turns 
away or closes. A thorny path wounds the feet: a 
smoother one is eagerly sought. Excessive heat 
prompts us to sigh for sea-breeze, for cool fountains, 
for frozen luxuries. So intuition tells the soul where 
to seek for comfort, for rest, for satisfaction. It drives 
the student into solitude, the worldling into gaiety, the 
artist into art, the mechanic into mechanism. It warns 
us not to engage in certain activities : if we neglect 
the warning it punishes by reminding us of the things 
we might do better. 

Intuitions, — what prizes we lose through neglecting 
them! Far away in the "long ago" how distinctly 
some things were told, which if heeded would have 
brought precisely those effects now seen to be best, — 
but, alas, now unattainable. Strange things they 
seemed then — inexpedient, rebellious, heretical things. 
The bitter hours of middle-life are for the most part 
caused by the want of self-knowledge in youth. But 
the bitterness is lessened, possibly, by bearing in mind 
that knowledge even to-day does not always bring 
about loyalty to its commands. 

I believe in Impulse : says the creed of Egoism. 

To be impelled to do a thing, to feel like going 
somewhere, to wish to see certain people, — these are 
the first crude phases of impulse. It then takes color 
and direction from the individual, is strong or weak in 
proportion to his organization. Impulse is to intuition 
what action is to thought. I have an intuition that a 



EGOISTS. 175 

certain act will bring upon me painful results. Im- 
pulse decides whether that act shall or shall not be 
committed. Intuition tells me which man or which 
woman is disposed to be my friend. Impulse brings 
about the overture, by word or by act, which ratifies 
the intuition. 

Intuition assures me of sundry possibilities, either 
already within reach, or attainable by industry: im- 
pulse drives me towards the goal thus pointed out, 
and spurs on my flagging steps. Prudence coldly 
descants upon the danger of yielding to impulse : yet 
without it where would be the bold innovations in 
science, in government, in society? Are not the pages 
of history throbbing with pulsations from that very 
life-current? And in us — men and women of to-day 
— what would our lives be worth were they not stirred 
by this power? 

It is easy to imagine a being so devoid of impulse 
as to be virtualty a mere automaton. Not that any 
being is born so : but, through assiduous working 
against natural qualities they can by degrees be 
wholly obliterated, A curious process this of un- 
doing Nature. When a subject is sensitive, a word, 
a shrug, or a curl of the lip is often enough to initiate 
the work of undermining. 

Impulse in a person of culture produces that 
charming spontaneity of conduct which beautifies the 
plainest features, lends a sparkle to the commonest 
speech, spreads a subtle charm over the entire manner. 
Impulse in the untrained man or woman generates 
every conceivable discomfort, every unimagined im- 
broglio. It is then the prolific source of malapropos 
words, of rash promises, of foolish plans. It drives us 



lye . EGOISTS. 

into whimsical straits, into ill-timed levities, into ludi- 
crous inconsistencies. It throws us open to charges 
of stupidity, of ill-nature, of malice, of selfishness : or, 
where passions are stronger than the moral sentiments, 
impulse degenerates into despotism, into lust, into 
cruelty. 

Impulse urges us into play, into work, into society, 
into solitude. Partly physical, partly mental, partly 
psychological, it forces us into activities and condi- 
tions of a threefold nature. Impulse is the fruit of 
inherited tendency wedded to education : the former 
gives the impetus, the latter its direction. To gain a 
clear conception of the power of impulse, we need 
only note the unceasing self-control practised by the 
noblest types before their lives yield up their strength. 
If the best-endowed mortal have countless impulses 
which cost great outlay of will and conscience to 
govern, we can imagine the difficulties besetting mor- 
tals of inferior grade. 

Suppose yourself a many-sided character, and give 
heed to the variety of impulses that from time to time 
call for discipline, — but without always getting it. 
Being many-sided, you can be proud and humble, 
generous and mean, wise and foolish. The devel- 
opment inseparable from such attributes creates not 
only a variety of impulses, but incessant change. 
The object ardently craved in one stage, in the next 
is regarded with cold indifference, — you even doubt 
whether you ever did so crave it. 

Is it well or is it ill, you sometimes ask yourself, to 
have diverse tastes and resources ? to feel that you 
can throw yourself with enthusiasm into many pur- 



EGOISTS, 



177 



suits ? You hardly know, — but you do know that the 
impulses springing up from so many sides are exceed- 
ingly difficult to manage. 

Your impulses make you warmly interested in 
others, for others, — they drive you into that often 
fruitless labor called " sacrificing yourself for others." 
To those around you perhaps this sounds like idle 
verbiage : they think you absorbed in petty plans of 
work or amusement, that you could live as well with- 
out them as with them, that you are all-sufficient to 
yourself Grossly-mistaken beings ! For, in reality, 
you give up to them far too much of yourself 

The self-sacrifice which promises positive benefit 
to the least of humankind must be rated far above all 
other projects or aims. But for any lower motive 
than this, self-sacrifice becomes censurable instead of 
laudable. 

Were children required to sacrifice themselves upon 
all occasions for others, they would lose the choicest 
hours of play, the sweetest privileges of childhood. 
Whereas, when not over-disciplined, children revel in 
the direct personal pleasures which come within their 
scope. One seeks the playground and boon com- 
panions. Another retires to a secluded nook to 
ponder over Fairy Lore. Another surrounds herself 
with doll-children, doll-clothing, doll-furniture, doll- 
servants, all the paraphernalia of a miniature home. 
To tear children away from the illusions which alone 
make their existence happy, is to deliberately prepare 
for them hours of intolerable pain. 

The same law applies to men and women. While 
none can escape, the law of work, — the discipline en- 
forced by Nature herself, — none are left wholly without 

16 



1/8 



EGOISTS. 



resources for amusement. To deprive them of these 
by the specious words " sacrifice yourself for others" 
is to cruelly misconstrue the best of truths. Taking 
average people in ordinary circumstances, a very 
serious difficulty is, to prevent them from sacrificing 
themselves for others. 

A sympathetic woman, for instance, is prompted to 
take a deep interest in every human being she meets. 
She is fairly endowed, let us say, with mental abilities, 
with special gifts, with desire for progress : but, with 
her profound sympathies for others how much culture 
do those abilities or gifts receive ? Nothing real, no- 
thing earnest, nothing persevering. No sooner does 
she begin — take a single step towards her own culture 
— than fifty things she " ought" to do for other people 
waylay her conscience. Through an impulse engen- 
dered — not by Nature, but — by the false logic of her 
training, she does for others " fifty things" she refuses 
to do for herself 

What! Is this Nature's definition of impulse, — to 
annihilate the self, the divine thing without which we 
are simply machines turned out of one mould ? For 
the most part, we act as if it were : we wilfully muti- 
late or destroy self under a mistaken notion that it is 
going to help others. 

I believe in Moods : saj/s the creed of Egoism. 

What are Moods ? Who is accountable for them ? 
Is Nature ? Is anybody or anything ? It is the cus- 
tom to talk about life as if we understood it; not only 
to talk, but to preach, to discuss, to dogmatize, to lay 
down the law for millions of human beings as if they 
were millions of automata, — and with what result ? 



EGOISTS. 179 

The millions listen,— but that is all. When it comes 
to action, every individual prefers making his own per- 
sonal experience, and says : 

If life be a mystery, I desire to make my own in- 
terpretation, my own deductions. Moods are to me 
facts as substantial as any object that can be seen or 
touched. Whether amiable or morose, quick-witted 
or dull, joyous or melancholy, I can trace clearly 
what has induced the special condition. And noticing 
the fluctuations of thought and feeling in one speci- 
men, I am led to note the same process in other 
specimens. 

People in whom physical vitality preponderates 
know little about moods, and show no mercy to those 
of their neighbors. When with such people, then, it is 
indiscreet to allude to moods, — worse than indiscreet 
to avow their existence in ourselves. 

In a special sense moods are those fascinating phases 
of being which stamp an epoch for the thinker, for the 
artist, for the musician,— for genius in any form. They 
come when least expected or sought, are to be accepted 
without demur at time or season. Early or late, con- 
venient or not, they are to be welcomed, entertained, 
or endured. If yielded to, all is well ; Nature is sat- 
isfied, and we are permitted to go our way : if we re- 
sist them, we induce soul-sickness. Neglected moods 
represent lost opportunities, wasted powers, ruined 
hopes. Utilized moods speak to men in ravishing 
strains of music, in immortal works of art, in divine 
poems. 

Children and illiterate people have moods without 
knowing their source: only when ascending in the 
mental scale do we find causes for both the best and 



l8o EGOISTS. 

the worst conditions of being. How far are we able 
to induce or control moods? Temperament seems 
to be their first perceptible origin. Most of us are 
fashioned by this powerful influence : a very small 
minority only are driven into examining it, into modi- 
fying it by other influences. 

Why, asks the being of joyous temperament, should 
I not live my life merrily ? I feel the sun's warmth, 
I respire heaven's air, I hear the happy voices of 
Nature. Nothing can shake my belief in joy ! No- 
thing can daunt my expectations of possessing, so 
long as life lasts, my full share ! Thoughtless, sus- 
ceptible, pleasure-loving, he revolves in a little circle 
bounded by sensation, by gratification, by civil or 
religious restraint. Not that he is callous to the 
suflering of others, — he feels, he gives, he helps: but, 
the object removed from sight, his mind is as free as 
ever. He is not troubled by analysis of suffering ; 
no dreaminess, no conflicting emotions, no bitterness 
of regret, no longings for amelioration, beset him. 
He feels pleasure, he feels pain ; but he knows neither 
rapture nor despondency. Enjoyment to the joyous 
temperament is to see, to touch, to taste, to possess. 
It is associated with color, with sound, with form ; it 
is inseparable from facts, incidents, events. 

What, after all, is life! exclaims the being of melan- 
choly temperament. Is it anything more than a repe- 
tition of formalities, a chaos of ungratified wishes and 
bitter disappointments! His days are an incessant 
alternation of thinking and feeling. He interrogates, 
ponders, analyzes. He is oppressed by the weight 
of existence. He craves ardently, regrets bitterly. 



EGOISTS. l8i 

grieves passionately. He knows the futility of so 
doing, yet this knowing does not prevent him from 
falling again and again into the same condition. 

Child's play for adults is not diverting unless there 
are merry-hearted children to be made happy. For 
this man life seems child's play without the children — 
nothing more. Once it amused him, now it does 
not: he needs something stronger, deeper. Rethrows 
himself into earnest work, is energetic, persevering, 
enthusiastic : but here, too, he finds satisfaction only 
in the doing, not in the thing done. Compared to 
the image in his mind, the semblance of it is bung- 
ling, unshapely, spiritless. He carries ideality into 
all the externals of his situation. The only life he 
accounts real is the one he imagines. The daily rou- 
tine, however varied, however colored, is strangely 
jinreal. 

Life is dreamed instead of lived. He dreams not 
only at night, he dreams by day, in the world, every- 
where, uninterruptedly. And how much sweeter are 
these dreams than the realities he tastes, touches, 
holds ! Active pursuits are shunned, mechanical 
duties disliked, prosaic routine zealously resisted. Men 
and women are observed less for the things they 
do, than for the ideas, motives, and sentiments they 
exemplify. Activity assumes shadowy proportions : 
Meditation is clothed with prismatic hues. 

The best things of life procure him only a fleeting 
satisfaction. In the very hour of hope's fruition, when 
his cup of bliss is full to the brim, the consciousness 
of no more tJian this impairs enjoyment. Imagination 
creates insatiability. If he himself be crowned with 
joy, his mind is still permeated with awe and sadness, 

1 6* 



l82 EGOISTS. 

— awe at the immensity of Nature, sadness for human 
darkness and error. f 

But the being of melancholy temperament is not at 
all times melancholy. He has moods which might be 
called attacks of gladness. In such an hour he can 
sing, laugh, enjoy. He is capable of either silent 
brooding or ardent demonstration. In all the inner 
chambers of consciousness he hears dulcet voices in- 
viting him to listen, to absorb, to luxuriate. Without 
apparent cause — without good tidings, without wine, 
drug, or elixir — he is suddenly suffused with felicity 
of an exquisite flavor. 

How account for such a mood ? The sun shines 
no more brilliantly than yesterday and many previous 
days. All about him, are the same coming and going, 
laughing and weeping, revelling and sorrowing. No- 
thing outward is changed. If he had made another 
being happy, done a generous act, vanquished an evil 
habit, his mood might be understood. But none of 
these have been done. He finds himself in the most 
enviable of conditions without in the least deserving it. 
What right has he to these sweet moments? May 
not Fortune have designed them for another mortal, 
presently come forward with an apology for the mis- 
take and whisk away the lovely burden ? But so 
deep is his content that even apprehension cannot 
ruffle its surface. The causes which usually harass 
and vex, are temporarily deprived of their sting. Amid 
the debris of intellect, of sensibility, of endeavor, he 
discerns glimpses of true life. Searching farther, 
he finds earnestness in trifling, harmony in discord, 
development in repression. 

Moods wholly unaccountable to others are often 



EGOISTS. 183 

clearly explicable to the self, — often too, the explica- 
tion is better withheld than made public. The charges 
of " moping," " moroseness," " selfishness," may be 
more endurable than the stupid wonder, open scoffing, 
or covert sneer of accusers. 

I believe in Aspiration : says the creed of Egoism. 

To a child of earnest but timid nature, aspiration 
seems a shadow, a vision, an unreality, a something 
beautiful belonging exclusively to genius, never to be 
possessed by the average ungifted mortal. But with 
maturity, that same nature sees that aspiration is a 
universal attribute, a truth inseparable from average 
human lives. 

To have faith in your feeling, in your hope, in your 
conviction, — this is the idea of aspiration. To seek 
the unfolding of that idea is the visible part of aspira- 
tion, the idea realized. 

Do you pant for an heroic life ? If so, here around 
you are countless opportunities: here, just where you 
are, just as you are, is the sphere of action. Never 
at any period in the world's history were there greater 
occasions for charity, for generosity, for humility, for 
gentleness, for love. Never at any epoch in the fu- 
ture will there come a more fitting hour to show of 
what stuff you are made. What if your life to-day 
be, in all respects, different from that once desired ! 
Destiny gives you not what you like, but what is best 
for progress. Murmuring against that decree, you 
betray human weakness without changing a single 
feature of the situation. 

Will a child believe you if you tell him toys will 
not make him happy ? No : he takes all he can get. 



1 84 



EGOISTS. 



convinced that every new one holds the supreme good 
he seeks. Only after repeated experiments does he 
discover that happiness lies in himself, not in the toys. 
So people crave the toys displayed in tempting array 
before Pleasure's booths. Yet, were wishes gratified 
as quickly as formed, where would be the individuality 
which finally proves the choicest part of character ? 

Individuality takes countless forms in men and in 
women ; the latter usually are taught to think it for- 
bidden fruit, — and perhaps the teaching is not unwise. 
But, for the woman in whom individuality is strongly 
marked, something more than ordinary teaching is 
needed. Happy for her if art, or science, or literature, 
or society, offer a vent for the flood of life within her 
soul ! 

Aspiration is at all times consonant with sex, with 
age, with mental endowment, with training. Imagine 
a little girl, living amid luxury, who longs to be poor 
that she may work for the support of her parents, 
and thus feel herself of some use. Childish, very 
silly it sounds, — yet, it gives an inkling of aspiration. 
A few years pass, and the girl has no longer a desire 
for poverty: her sole aim now, is to do and to be what 
those in authority wish. Her thoughts, her tastes, her 
feelings are wholly unlike theirs, and it is not without 
continuous struggle that adaptation is accomplished. 
During many years she tries hard to kill the self which 
rebels against conformity ; and she so nearly succeeds 
in her murderous purpose, that for a long time vitality 
is wholly suspended. 

At intervals come flashes of soul-lightning to startle 
her into a possibility of better things than personal ease 
and comfort. She desires to become a missionary: 



EGOISTS. 185 

sincerity is the basis of the desire, — ^but she fails to 
make it a reality because of timidity, doubts of her 
own Christianity. Next, comes the wish to be a teacher 
in her own country, to devote herself body and soul to 
the enlightenment of those less favored than herself 
Again she is thwarted: family complications render 
the plan impracticable. Later still she is possessed by 
the spirit of philanthropy. The misery she beholds 
excites indignation, compassion, sorrow. She longs 
to abandon home and friends, to become a Sister of 
Charity, pledging every moment, every faculty* to the 
alleviation of distress. Were she a Romanist, vows 
of abnegation would soon place a perpetual barrier 
between herself and the world. 

But Fate has other designs : it drives her out of 
seclusion into the busy life of her day and position ; 
sends her into foreign lands, brings her in relation 
with many strange things, many new people. Changes 
without and within gradually produce changed views, 
different aims. Aspiration does not die, — it merely 
assumes other shapes. The quondam earnest-restless 
little girl at last becomes an artist and leads one of 
the happiest of artist-lives. 

Could I but know how many years I have to live ! 
Easy then to decide how much time to give to work, 
how much to pleasure ! So exclaims an ardent youth. 
The wish is as natural as the reasoning is false. 

To believe in death — the certainty of its coming — 
is equivalent to knowing the specified hour. Who, 
realizing that the summons may come at any moment, 
would not be inspired to put the best of himself into 
action I <r 



1 86 EGOISTS. 

A test question to every individual, young or old, 
would be: 

Were this to be your last year on earth, to what 
special pursuit would you devote yourself? 

To revelling in pleasure ! sighs the voluptuary. 

To the accumulation of gold ! mutters the miser. 

To the perfecting of my instrument ! exclaims the 
inventor. 

To the solution of my problem ! answers the mathe- 
matician. 

To the finishing of my picture ! cries the artist. 

To the search after truth! responds the philoso- 
pher. 

A list, endless in length, boundless in variety, sug- 
gests itself, — and in every answer would be found a 
definition of aspiration. 

Solitude is the fountain-head of aspiration. Re- 
leased temporarily from the din and tumult of out- 
ward life, the self gladly gives way to an introspective 
tendency. To define the results of soul-action is es- 
sentially the poet's faculty. In prose, the words rest, 
peace, content, come nearest; yet, compared to the 
state defined, they are cold and inanimate. In soli- 
tude, aspiration gains strength, firmness, beauty : it 
then discerns possibilities once barely dreamed of, 
audaciously grasps what elsewhere seemed sacrilege 
to think of The gross realities of life are remanded 
to their several places ; rambling thoughts are gath- 
ered in, tumultuous emotions swayed by reason, life- 
projects planned under its guidance. 

Solitude throws an illumination over the perplexing 
realities around us. All that the world can give — 
health, prosperity, love — cannot prevent an occasional 



EGOISTS. 187 

sense of unrest from overpowering the soul. It is as if 
it were travelling, sojourning now and then in pleasant 
places — as on this planet — yet never losing the uneasy 
consciousness of exile. Solitude lends the power of 
estimating human joys, of applying to them the con- 
flicting properties of the term Bitter-sweet. 

Bitter-sweet ! Can any word better express what 
all mortals, even in moments of supreme happiness, 
feel? Bitter-sweet the sunshine, the singing of birds, 
the rose-tinted cloud, the balmy air of spring, the fra- 
grant rose of summer ! Bitter-sweet the merry voices 
of children, the earnest tones of friendship, the pas- 
sionate whisper of love ! Bitter-sweet whatever earth 
can give of delight, of rapture ! And why ? Because, 
in a single instant Destiny may poison our delight, 
paralyze our rapture. Take physical existence — this 
rare combination of breathing, seeing, feeling, think- 
ing — on what a slender thread it hangs ! Conscious 
of its risks, how cautiously we step, how guardedly 
we act, how reverently we admire the beauties of 
creation ! 

Solitude is like that hour of twilight when, mo- 
mentarily checked in our wonted activity, we stop 
and gaze into the vivid coals of our fireside. Bright 
and burning, well nigh scorching they are, yet we 
gaze as if fascinated. The pain we feel is involuntarily 
likened to that of by-gone experiences : mingled with 
it is a subtle sense of luxury we would not willingly 
miss. 

Night hours produce the purest extract of solitude. 
By day there is always the intruding apparition of an 
active duty — a positive, an expected, or imaginary one 
— to be performed : a train of thought can be indulged 



1 88 EGOISTS. 

in only under protest. But at night — that dividing 
line between To-day and To-morrow — we find the 
essential atmosphere of reflection. To-day, with ils 
toil, its temptation, its struggle, is over; its deeds, of 
whatever color or kind, are indelibly stamped upon 
consciousness; memory will recall them either with 
poignant regret or with tender joy. To-morrow — 
that swiftly-approaching Presently — we shall again be 
drawn into the vortex called activity. And why 
murmur, after learning that inscrutable but benefi- 
cent designs are wrapped in that irksome, ceaseless 
routine ! 

But this stillness of night hours, — while it lasts let 
us drink deep of its potent charm ! With more of 
this, would there not be less strife, less meanness, less 
arrogance? Would not more stillness induce more 
thought? more thought, a juster estimate of human 
needs ? 

People seek the distractions of sense to get rid of 
self: they want to forget the claim that presses, the 
reflection that urges, the conscience that troubles. 
Solitude has no attracti®n for the worldling, for the 
hypocrite, for the villain : its warnings and goadings 
are less endurable than even exhaustion, detection, 
or punishment. But, the strong-souled man — what a 
reserve of force he feels within himself in moments of 
meditation ! And, if he prove refractory, refusing to 
use this force, it twists and tortures his soul until it is 
thrown prostrate in agony. What then ? Confession, 
recantation, oaths of amendment, vehement profes- 
sions of loyalty, — these follow in quick succession. 
If with returning strength the same weakness again 
conquers, the torture is renewed. 



EGOISTS. 189 

The world has no sympathy with the Egoist. Let 
me imagine a short dialogue : 

World. — Why do you act so strangely, so differently 
from others of your age and position ? 

Egoist. — To answer fully would require many 
pages, much confidence, — in brief, an unveiling of the 
self which I am by no means prepared to give. Even 
were I willing, you would not take time to read the 
explanation, so please accept conciseness as intended 
courtesy. I lead this life because of something to do 
which could not be done while listening to your seduc- 
tions, following your votaries. At the same time, I 
acknowledge with due gratitude the benefits derived 
from you in times past. 

World. — By acting thus, you seclude yourself from 
your fellow-creatures, become estranged from even 
your own family. How can you reconcile this with 
your idea of duty? 

Egoist. — Justice to others presupposes justice to 
self 

World. — But, since you admit certain advantages 
derived from me, do you not owe something to my 
prejudices, to my opinions? 

Egoist. — Undoubtedly: and my tribute to you is 
generous beyond computation. Not a day that I do 
not bow to your decrees : in coming, going, doing; in 
accepting disagreeable tasks ; in submitting to irksome 
domestic rules; in holding intercourse with people I 
naturally shrink from ; in performing offices for others 
— at great inconvenience to myself and very ill-appre- 
ciated by them — in these and countless other ways 
you compel my obedience. In fact, when I compare 
my life with what, independent of you, it might be, I 

17 



190 



EGOISTS. 



find myself still far too much under your Influence. 
No one suspects or can imagine how frequently I 
deny myself the dearest delights, solely out of regard 
for you. 

World. — You talk at random. You are under a 
pitiful hallucination, — in reality, you give me nothing. 
But, taking you at your own estimate — merely for 
sake of the argument — how do you know you are 
right? May you not be the victim of a wayward 
imagination, of a morbid self-consciousness ? 

Egoist. — I believe right and wrong to be purely 
relative, and that no power save conscience can decide 
for me personally, the things to do or not to do. 

World. — Is it not possible to combine the two — 
mingle in my diversions, yet reserve certain hours for 
seclusion and meditation ? 

Egoist. — I once thought so and acted upon it. In 
my present stage, my inner wants are so numerous, so 
clamorous, that all the hours I can snatch from the 
absolute requirements of family life, are not sufficient 
for satisfying them. When these demands — including 
the personal ones essential for physical existence — are 
complied with, I find the surplus hours vexatiously 
short for my purposes. 

World. — I am out of all patience with you ! I can- 
not extenuate your conduct ! Wliy think of it, — your 
arguments, if listened to, would thoroughly destroy 
my influence ! Instead of the crowd of subjects now 
at my feet, I should see people actually going about 
developing their individuality, — this with an earnest- 
ness and an ardor greatly detrimental to my interests. 
No, no — if not with me, you are against me — the 
old story — hence, for principle's sake, I do not con- 



EGOISTS. 



191 



sider you worthy of the sHghtest esteem. If you do 
not choose to pay me court, I must neglect you, — 
more than this, do my utmost to prevent others of 
your class from following your example. 

Egoist. — I knew your disposition long before I 
withdrew from your charmed circle, — realized that no 
mercy need be expected. To do you justice, I must 
admit that even in seclusion I feel your potency. In- 
deed, my independence is very far from being a thing 
actually achieved. 

World. — Good words even from an enemy are not 
to be despised. Pray, before parting, may I ask what 
affords the greatest satisfaction in your eccentric mode 
of life ? 

Egoist. — Assuredly: for, although not presuming 
to lay down any rule for another, or even to take any 
step to bring him to my way of thinking, I am always 
ready to give personal testimony in behalf of honest 
conviction. This, then, is my answer: 

In that life I have found a fragment of the Philos- 
opher's Stone, — that mysterious tablet which so long 
puzzled the brains of humanity, but which in the light 
of modern science is presumed to be but another term 
for happiness. Pardon me, if I add, that while under 
your sway, I never in any one moment felt as light- 
hearted, as joyous, as now during many consecutive 
hours. That I cannot be so in all hours, I attribute 
largely to your former influence. 

World (with disagreeable self-assurance). — Look 
out, my dear Egoist! Since you acknowledge that I 
can in some degree affect you, I ma)^ still be enabled 
to thwart your fine plans ! You do not know all the 
secrets of my power : even if you did know, the human 



192 



EGOISTS. 



nature in you would find it difficult to resist certain 
fascinations I can bring to bear upon it. Spite of 
your apparent calmness and high-sounding resolves, 
rest assured I have not yet done with you. 

(Exit World with a low bow and a sinister smile.) 



PASSIONATE WOMEN. 



Cleopatra, Semiramis, Catherine II., Mary of Scots, 
among the queens; Aspasia, Lais, Phryne, Ninon, 
Marion de Lorme, and others among non-royalty, — 
these women have a deep significance, as illustrative 
of the fact called Human Passions. 

But, what have good women, gentle women, high- 
bred women of this century, to do with such names 
as those? What, — you ask? A great deal, — a great 
deal more than conventionality cares to acknowledge. 
And, doubtless, there is safety in that scrupulous care 
to cover, to keep down, to silence what cannot be 
helped or changed, and which is nevertheless cen- 
surable. Most women — Heaven be praised — are not 
passionate but dispassionate. Better it should be so — 
better for themselves, better for men, better for family- 
life, better for civilization. This much granted, must 
we shut our eyes, close our ears, and profess to ignore 
the fact that women have passions ? 

Can any one — even the most fastidious — be hurt by 
looking at truth, looking at it with intelligent mind 
and honest purpose ? I think not : but, dear madam, 
you need not be alarmed by this preamble, need not 
turn away from possible spoken heresy. Whatever 

17" ^93 



194 PASSIONATE WOMEN. 

may happen to find its way here will be drawn, not 
from any scandal records whatsoever, but from life as 
you and I know it in our respectable American society. 
It is simply to express a conviction that human pas- 
sions have not changed with passing centuries ; that 
with due acknowledgment of all the outward changes 
brought about by war, by religion, by education, same- 
ness in character is forcibly manifested by everything 
seen and heard about us. 

Why is it that those women, and others of like rep- 
utation, are fondly immortalized in history and in fic- 
tion ? It is not their beauty alone, as we all concede, 
nor is it their rank or deeds. No— it is a something 
far more powerful in effects than either of those, — it 
is the temperament called passionate. This, added to 
beauty, grace, and mental culture, produced their ex- 
traordinary power of fascination. 

Passionate women have not vanished from the world : 
they still exist, still evince their inconsistencies, their 
charms, and their sway. And who would deplore it? 
Ah, — woman would not be what she is were she pas- 
sionless ! Fire is not necessarily destructive, nor is 
passion : reined in by reason it gives forth a warmth, 
a sweetness, a spirit, of which cold natures know only 
the name. Yet, it is not in domestic life that such 
women find their best chances of happiness. The 
passive condition of wife and mother is too colorless 
a one for their intense feelings and variable moods. 
The self-abnegation it imposes does violence to a self 
that craves recognition and desires its full share of 
life's joys. In general, then, marriage to such women 
proves a catastrophe involving themselves and all con- 



PASSIONATE WOMEN. 195 

nected with them in misery. In special cases where 
h'ke is mated to like — in temperament, in education, 
in tastes — there results a degree of bliss to both parties 
which words fail utterly to depict: but, these occur 
so rarely that it seems almost a waste of interest to 
mention them. It is safer for all of us not to expect 
to be exceptions, but rather to count ourselves among 
average mortals. 

But, for some other positions a woman of impas- 
sioned nature is pre-eminently qualified. In whatever 
pertains to art, to literature, to music, to friendship, 
she is that union of strength and gentleness which sur- 
prises while it fascinates. Above all these even, her 
nature is peculiarly susceptible to love, and peculiarly 
fitted to inspire it. This last makes what the world 
phrases a dangerous woman, — dangerous because her 
sphere of attraction is liable to spread over ground not 
consecrated by law, order, and conventionality. 

Society, then, very properly, looks out for itself. It 
erects barriers against the peril dreaded, and forbids 
its members overleaping them, under penalties so se- 
vere — at least in our own country and in England — 
that very few are bold enough to make the experi- 
ment. We all know these barriers, — know them by 
sight, by hearsay, by drilling. They are not pleasant, 
many think, but all agree that they are good and safe 
for the community, that they must be maintained at 
least in doctrine and in appearance, if not in reality. 
Nor need it be inferred that because women have the 
passionate temperament they must infringe upon so- 
ciety's safeguards. By no means. Danger does not 
imply certainty of accident: indeed, to know where 
the hazard is, often proves the best assurance of safety. 



196 



PASSIONATE WOMEN. 



Shall we glance — no more than this in such desul- 
tory pages — at a few familiar types of such women ? 
And does it matter where we begin, whether with the 
highest or with the lowest? Difficult, indeed, in read- 
ing the book of Nature to tell who is high and who 
low : there we find the only perfect equality known or 
ever to be known. 

The most privileged women of the nineteenth cen- 
tury are — perhaps it would be safer to say, might 
be — the women of our own country. Assuredly, it 
would be hardly possible to conceive of greater respect 
from men, greater freedom of action for themselves, 
greater opportunities for education, greater likelihood 
for felicity. All this, be it understood, when there is 
no perversion of natural qualities, no vitiation of char- 
acter in either sex. Among these women let me 
sketch one to illustrate the impassioned nature when 
subjected to various checks and guards. 

You belong to a class to which the term disciplined 
— in the sense of sheltered, watched, walled-in — may 
apply. Everything around you, from the first breath 
of consciousness up to the present moment, has been 
conducive to mental and moral development. Family 
ties, comfort and innocent pleasures, were your birth- 
right. Moreover, you learned very early to wear the 
finely-wrought but strong armor of Conventionality. 
Numberless observances — many of them petty and 
irksome enough, but wisely instituted for your sex — 
were insisted upon as part of your life. Even if you 
often felt like resisting, you gave way under dread of 
the moral whip — social frowns. 

You reach womanhood. You are not ugly, not 



PASSIONATE WOMEN. igj 

afflicted ; you are conscientious, you are sympathetic, 
you wish to live a good life. Yet, — how is this ? It 
is not as easy as you once thought it, — the living that 
life. Were you to tell all your thoughts and desires 
just as they come, — what an array they would make ! 
You are mortified, you are vexed, you know not 
what to make of them. Gradually, light comes in. 
You are forced, are you not, to acknowledge the 
existence of certain troublesome passions ? Not that 
you need blush at such an avowal — not at all — but it 
is simply necessary for the understanding of other 
kinds of women, living under other influences than 
yours. 

Your life presents a fair aspect, yet you find yourself 
liable to disappointments, in an infinity of forms and 
colors. You form a wish, its fulfilment is thwarted : 
a desire is awakened, its gratification is denied. The 
wish is not exorbitant, the desire is not unnatural, yet 
neither of them may be granted. You submit because 
forced to; but cheeks flushed, eyes emitting angry 
light, step heavy, voice sharp, — these betray your inner 
agitation. You hear much vague talk about moral 
strength, right and wrong sentiments : but, you won- 
der whether those who talk so glibly know to how 
slight an extent your hopes and passions are amenable 
to rule. 

As well call sickness health, bitter herbs sweet, im- 
prisonment liberty, as call disappointment good. No 
argument can make pain agreeable, although it can 
lessen distress by suggesting means of alleviation. So 
with this thwarting of human desires, which men and 
children call by the same name — disappointment. 
There is no shame in feeling it keenly every time it is 



198 PASSIONATE WOMEN. 

inflicted ; but, a great deal in allowing that feeling to 
annoy others whose ill-luck it is to be near us at such 
seasons. 

What other women call happiness you well know, — 
how they obtain it you know too. But what they call 
by that name you repudiate ; so when you appear dis- 
contented there is ground for it. You grant that your 
circumstances are good, that comforts and luxuries 
are in their way desirable, yet you cannot prize them 
as other women do. They find exhaustless interest in 
discussing this or that arrangement, change, or color ; 
in giving orders to tradespeople and servants ; they 
never weary of going here and there, driving, walking, 
gossiping, managing. 

But you — wretched malcontent that you are — look 
upon all these fine externals as merely the antecham- 
ber to something brighter and better. You seem to 
be waiting in a chilly, dark, comfortless place, with 
strange people's eyes upon you, until the door of the 
inner room where you belong is opened. You know 
just how warm and inviting it is, and how instantly 
your mood would be changed were you there. There 
are hours when you ask yourself, Is there, then, some 
flaw in my individuality which prevents the attainment 
of life's greatest good? Am I unreasonable, exacting, 
rapacious ? Heaven knows, you do not feel as if you 
claimed much, — yet if not, why is it you see and feel 
so unlike others around you? 

The why is this : you are a passionate woman 
chained down to a passive routine. In addition to 
that temperament you have quick intelligence and 
broad culture. This being so, life is full enough for 
you and busy enough ; for such gifts without a strong 



PASSIONATE WOMEN. 



199 



hand over them, mean mischief. You, who know- 
more than church, tradition, and social law tell you, 
must pay the penalty of knowledge, — must know life 
without living it. 

Does that sound hard ? Not more so than the 
thing is, not more so than most things are. You ad- 
mit facts; you reason upon them, convince yourself 
that nothing can be changed, that whatever is — right 
or not right — is wholly beyond your control. Yet, 
that same cold conviction never satisfies your pas- 
sionate heart, — it rebels, cries out, refuses to be re- 
signed. And who would ridicule that cry ! You are 
a real flesh and blood woman, you desire ardently the 
thing you know to be good and beautiful. 

In vain do moralists preach to you : Happiness is 
not to be found here below! Away, far away from 
this earth is bliss to be sought! 'Tis false! retorts 
Nature — speaking through your heart — with just in- 
dignation. Happiness is here on this same, much- 
maliened earth ! Because one mortal does not find 
it, or, because another finds, only to be forbidden to 
touch it, shall it be proclaimed that there is no such 
thing ? 

Passion often makes you appear envious. Yet to 
weep at sight of another's joy is not necessarily from 
a malicious grudge. May it not arise from a purely 
human longing for the same kind of joy? You then 
— envious woman — are unhappy and know the cause. 
Does this help the matter? Not a whit: it rather 
augments it, although enabling you, perhaps, to endure 
without outward sign. Who can deny that Nature is 
often cruel ! When, then, you feel her privations, wince 
under her blows, writhe under her castigations, shall 



200 PASSIONATE WOMEN. 

you falsely declare that you do not suffer ? Away with 
such sophistry ! You are suffering — acutely, contin- 
uously — and you dare not stultify reason by denial. 
You do not — you wish to proclaim it far and wide 
that Nature is often more unjust, more aggravating, 
more cruel than any earthly parent — not vitiated — 
would ever be. Of no fact in life have you stronger 
proof, of no truth are you more thoroughly convinced. 
You look at the question on all sides, ponder it with 
all the earnestness of a devout mind, rack conscience 
with numberless expedients for the sole purpose of 
arriving at truth. And where has this discipline left 
you? 

In a state which words can only outline, not color. 
You are immured, you are in galling fetters, you are 
deprived of the very breath of life, while all the time 
the true self is in wild rebellion against what is. Im- 
mortal gods ! you exclaim, is this all of life ? Will 
there be no change ? Must you live on to the end 
in this fierce contention with the elements created 
by Nature herself? What have you done that she 
should deal thus hardly with you ? Why, in the best 
years of youth, did she torment you with a multitude 
of chimerical fancies which came to naught? why 
finally show you one you could love with all the 
intensity of an intense nature, use every device for 
knitting your souls together, and then — ruthlessly 
bid you part for ever? Can you forget the storm 
that followed and rent your very being, — that made 
you in moments of agony question the beneficence of 
existence ? 

You have no wish to do ill, — either to injure any 
other, even the very least, or to be false to yourself, 



PASSIONATE WOMEN. 20I 

to the highest you know. Yet, heaven only knows 
what dire temptations often beset you, especially in 
one direction — in that subtlety called Heart There 
is the rock upon which you are ever in danger of de- 
struction. You feel it, see it, know it, reason about it, 
warn yourself against it, prepare yourself for it, — and 
all with what little avail ! So often are you dashed 
against its craggy surface that you would fain shut 
your eyes and sleep the sleep of oblivion until the 
danger shall have passed. 

You desire the thing you cannot have, — you crave 
it and are unhappy because of denial. Denial, — from 
whom? Who forbids it? What prevents you from 
taking, from holding, from enjoying? You are not 
bound down by any visible chains : you can, if you 
choose, take the cup of pleasure — as others before you 
have done — take it with such a zest that you think 
yourself well fortified against results. You half re- 
solve to do it, — why not live as others have lived ? 

Suspense! Do you know what that is? Waiting 
for some one you want very much to see, — waiting 
and watching and counting and fearing? If you are 
cold and apathetic, you can know nothing about it, 
cannot even understand these words. Perhaps, upon 
the whole, you are happier for not knowing, for not 
understanding. But this would be neither your merit 
nor demerit: whatever your constitution, you must 
deal with it as best you may. 

Suspense! Waiting, watching, counting, fearing, 
hoping — this last only very little. Suppose you are 
a woman in this unenviable state, and the suspense 
pertains to an expected visitor — one in whom you feel 

iS 



202 PASSIONATE WOMEN. 

special interest. We do not ask what manner of 
woman you are, whether of high or low degree, of 
strong or weak brain, of great or little culture. One 
thing only we desire to know — your temperament. If 
this be of the warm, susceptible kind, we can imagine 
the rest. Suspense, then, means this. You are in a 
highly-wrought emotional condition, one which no 
amount of world-discipline can control. You are not 
a child, therefore do not openly fret and fume, stamp 
or scream, — yet it would be a relief to pent-up feel- 
ing so to do. This strange inner turbulence, what does 
it mean ? what portend ? It is painful, almost as if the 
woman within that visible form were being suffocated. 
Your pulses, how they throb ! — the heart, especially, 
has expanded until the garments over it seem to press 
upon and hinder its action. You can do nothing while 
this lasts — be it moments or hours ; you are absolutely 
powerless. You can do nothing save brace yourself 
to bear it, hold on, as it were, to the whispers of 
Reason. It is not the first, not the second, nor the 
third time, — you have had frequent similar attacks, as 
you know to your cost. Alas ! will it be so to the end 
of time? Will you, must you live on through all the 
years — few or many — of life, liable at any hour to be 
thus stretched on the rack of suspense? Is it the 
penalty you pay for the hours of keen enjoyment 
known when with the one you expect? But how 
cold and inanimate reason seems in comparison to 
this glowing, throbbing soul, which now claims its 
own! You would fain have relief at any price; you 
are wearied, harassed, taxed beyond endurance. If it 
would avail aught, how fervently you could pray for 
release — release even at the cost of your imaginative 



PASSIONATE WOMEN, 203 

nature ! How cheerful, calm, and unperturbed other 
lives seem, — how unlike this of yours ! 

An hour comes which tests your mettle. You 
are in presence of the coveted good, that which the 
self in you pronounces the best of all human joys — 
Loving and Being Loved. 

With what transport could you not seize the spark- 
ling cup held to your lips, — seize and drain it to the 
last drop ! A great thirst possesses you, and that within 
the cup will quench it, while leaving a remembrance 
for all time. There is nobody— nothing— to prevent 
you, — with one draught you may satisfy hunger, thirst, 
pain, — you may live ! Your face shows your waver- 
ing, — your pulses speak eloquently, — every fibre of 
your being vibrates to a vast longing for just one 
draught ! 

How — you hesitate, refuse, draw back, — now in the 
very moment of fruition? Yes — you do more than 
this^ — with your own hand you dash the cup to the 
ground, scattering the drops of life over an irredeem- 
able past. Gone, gone forever are these golden mo- 
ments ! Gone! Gone! Gone! is the refrain now. 
ringing in your ears and through your heart. Gone, 
— and by your voluntary act ! 

Shall you say why ? Because — because— there was 
Poison in the cup ! Because, under all its sparkle, all 
its joy-giving properties, all its entrancing promises, 
lay the single fatal grain which means either infamy 
or death! A warning entered your soul — sent by 
whom? by what? — and threw your outer self into a 
spell of reserve, of silence, of fear. You stood like 
one in a dream, scarce knowing what it meant, but 



204 PASSIONATE WOMEN. 

certain that you must not speak, move, or act. Then 
came the decisive moment, when the cup must either 
touch the lips or be hurled from you. It — the last — 
was done, — and done, not blindly, but under a full 
consciousness of its cost. 

And now that the test is over, that cost is at its 
height, — there is a surging of human passions within 
your frame. You know it Avas right to do, you see, 
too, from what after-curse you have been saved, — and 
yet, are not content. Spite of reason and right — of 
everything — you are prostrate with dire disappoint- 
ment. 

Perhaps you would find more solace if you could 
think that the quality called virtue had withheld your 
lips from the tempting cup. — But you do not for an 
instant think so. You see that passion strong and 
glowing like yours, that this, without powerful checks, 
would long ago have swept you away. You refused 
pleasure not because you did not desire it, but because 
your mind saw the dregs. Painful as starvation is, 
there is a something worse, — this it is that kept you in 
your place. Yes — you grant all this unhesitatingly, 
but do not on that account feel your pain lessened. 
You hear, too, many canting voices about you preach- 
ing the doctrine of Content. Content, forsooth, — Con- 
tent in the very hour when a fierce hunger of the 
heart is denied the food it needs ! You reject such a 
doctrine, indignantly, and cry out, dear Mother Nature, 
must we, then, ignore the truth we feel, while we ac- 
cept the truth we see or know? Surely, if you are 
tender and merciful, you cannot wish us to do that ! 

The soul rallies from passion as the body does from 



PASSIONATE WOMEN. 



205 



pain. In the hour of calm you look upon the past as 
you would upon a violent storm or an earthquake. 
These gusts of passion which sweep through your 
soul, will they never cease their visitations ? You have 
heard that they diminish with years, — but how is it in 
your case ? They were, perhaps, slow in developing, 
but now you yourself are amazed at their duration and 
intensity. They conflict with reason, with custom, 
they shock your sense of fitness, of delicacy. You 
abhor the ideas they suggest, you shrink from recog- 
nition of facts invisible to other eyes, but to yours solid 
as stones : you writhe under the flagellation of truth. 

Eternal Force ! Inscrutable Nature ! Why, at your 
bidding, must these pangs be endured! Why must 
you be torn by these elements, tossed hither and 
thither betwixt reason and feeling, until every atom 
of your organization quivers with pain! To have 
strong passions and acumen to see the peril of grati- 
fying them, makes life an unceasing struggle. This 
has been your lot, — has been and is — perhaps ever 
will be. 

Yet, you are not always in this whirl of emotion. 
Often, indeed, you are so unmoved, tranquil, that you 
smile at past alarms, think yourself safe from fresh 
assaults. Surely, you say to yourself, those hours of 
turbulence can never return! But lo, a trivial incident, 
a sudden thought, a reminiscence, a human face or 
form, — either of these in a single flash destroys your 
equilibrium. While realizing the consummate folly of 
passion, you are yet liable at any moment to be shat- 
tered by it. Reason shows you yourself as in a glass. 
You frown, you jeer, you condemn, — you protest 
against the representation of yourself there beheld, — 



2o6 PASSIONATE WOMEN. 

and yet, a voice reiterates persistently that you are 
what you would fain not be. 

But, can you help having the thoughts that come? 
deny the facts which incessantly rise up to harass you ? 
root out the desires Nature implanted in you ? Can 
you, in brief, be other than you are? No: you cannot 
help, cannot deny, cannot root out, — can do none of 
these. But, in the same breath comes an assurance 
that there is a talisman you are to seek and bind about 
your neck to counteract the seeming unchangeable— 
a talisman called self-control. 

Why indeed should you wish yourself cold, stolid, 
passionless ! Why wish you did not feel the power of 
grace, beauty, love ! Why wish that your eyes saw 
less, that your mind comprehended less, that your 
pulses beat less strongly ! May not the attributes 
which all- your life have proved a source of contention 
between body and soul, finally be made to yield an es- 
sence at once sweet and wholesome? But, this only 
through the aforesaid talisman, — and to gain that you 
must first undo a mass of miserable tangles. You 
must be the woman you would be not merely during 
a crisis, but in the prosaic hours of ordinary life. You 
must see that even in the most impassioned of lives 
passion is but an episode ; but, upon self-control hangs 
the decision whether that episode is to be blessing or 
curse. 

Of all enigmas presented to you the one called self 
is by far the most puzzling. The contradictions, incon- 
sistencies, extravagances, caprices — the heaven knows 
what of conflicting forces in your nature strike you 
with a sort of horror. Yet, if driven to the con- 
fessional of Reason, you are forced to acknowledge 



PASSIONATE WOMEN. 207 

that there is good ground for whatever of mischief or 
misery that same self works. You could portray, if 
you chose, step by step, just why and how you have 
been drawn into the quicksands which threaten to en- 
gulf self-respect. 

A passionate heart without fitting occupation — this 
has been the fatal flaw of your life. You see it, de- 
plore it, groan under it, weep over the many dear 
treasures of life it has lost you. Two things you bear 
away with you from this confessional : one — that there 
is no escaping the penalties of either ignorance or 
weakness of will ; the other — that there is no help and 
no hope beyond yourself: that if you refuse to accept 
and wield the power the gods give you, you incur 
justly the sword of retribution. 

Finally, you make no pretence of virtue, do not 
even talk of it, — but have come out of the fire of ex- 
perience a woman both gentle and charitable. Seeing 
of what, more than once, you were so nearly capable, 
you cannot judge any other woman harshly, — you 
have only pity and tenderness for even the weakest 
or worst. 

Very young, very beautiful, very poor women, — 
plenty of them here in our midst. Is it difficult to call 
up to mind one who in her personal struggles with the 
world may illustrate her class ? 

As a little girl you were made to feel all manner of 
disadvantages and privations, except one thing — ad- 
miration. Of that you had always a superabundance 
coming to you from every quarter, wisely and unwisely 
bestowed. Your parents — hard-working, illiterate 
people — fed and clothed you, even that being no easy 



2o8 PASSIONATE WOMEN. 

matter. You went to school, but only during a few 
years of girlhood, because your help was needed at 
home. Finally, in your full bloom of youthful beauty, 
you become dissatisfied with the home which gives 
you so little of the fulness of life you hear of as ex- 
isting in other homes. You go out to seek your for- 
tune in the public arena of a great city. There you 
find work, in abundance, but you find, too, what you 
are but little prepared for, either by education or expe- 
rience — temptations. Your beauty attracts so many 
adorers that it makes work seem a secondary matter. 
Men of every grade — rich, handsome, gallant, fasci- 
nating men — profess themselves your slaves. For a 
time it is very pleasant, this walking in the garden of 
Adulation. Its flowers are highly colored, heavy- 
scented; its fountains seductive to sight and sensation; 
its paths endless in promises of variety and pleasure. 
But, at last, you grow weary of the sweets of flattery. 
The womanhood in you begins to feel the need of 
something more than surface homage : the thought of 
a home looms up in your mind as the one thing yet 
wanting to your happiness. You now listen indiffer- 
ently to gallantry, but eagerly to even a semblance of 
affection. It comes to you in noble shape, in sincere 
tones, with seeming honesty of purpose. You know 
nothing of worldly ways, of their strong influence 
upon even generous-hearted men ; you know nothing 
of human passions, whether of your own or those of 
others ; you know nothing save the craving for the 
ardent love now waiting for your acceptance. You 
love passionately — you believe implicitly. . . . 

For a space you live, — live for the first time in your 



PASSIONATE WOMEN. 209 

life. Your heart and soul are full to the brim of that 
elixir which wiser ones than you — of both sexes — in 
all ages — have pronounced the one good of existence 
which brings no satiety. But, for you — poor flutter- 
ing bird — this gilded cage, these dainty morsels, this 
intoxicating draught, are only temporary: for how 
long or how short a time, depends upon other human 
passions like — and yet unlike — yours. 

Could you but see — as you will years later — the 
contrast of facts ! On your side, all you owned in the 
world — yourself — was given up unreservedly: on the 
other side — your companion's — there was given up 
only a portion of self, that to be redeemed whenever 
circumstances or personal change of feeling made it 
expedient. Passion on both sides, — but in what dif- 
ferent degrees, with what diverse results ! Poor child ! 
if you had but known what many of your more en- 
lightened, better protected, but, at heart, no more 
chaste sisters know, you could never have been led 
into those transient relations. For, you were not born 
with the fiery nature which makes some other heretical 
women. You are simply an ignorant, loving, beautiful 
woman, plunged by one false step into an abyss from 
which no earthly power can raise you — raise you to 
your prior position. 

Very unjust, very unchristian, very cruel is the de- 
cree — but who can change the public verdict of any 
age? Perhaps, the whole realm of Misery — thickly 
populated as it is — can show no deeper distress than 
yours. For, in other cases there is respect, help, sym- 
pathy from both sexes : in yours, there is neither of 
these to mitigate the crime of one error. 

Especially are you made to suffer from the con- 



2IO PASSIONATE WOMEN. 

tumely and scorn of your own sex. They shrink from 
you as from contamination, would not suffer you to 
touch the hem of their garments, or to enter their 
houses, — nay, even to work for them. Yet, many of 
those same self-righteous women, young and old — 
as the world knows, if you, poor bruised dove, do not 
— have not the smallest scruple in helping themselves 
to many choice bits of stolen fruit, whenever it cannot 
impair the lustre of that fine outer garment called 
Reputation. 

From men — to their honor be it said — you receive 
more justice, more charity, more tenderness, but it can 
give you no substantial aid because of heavy balance 
on the part of the other sex. Upon the whole, then, 
you see yourself blighted and doomed to life-long 
wretchedness. Surely, in your hours of bitterness you 
must come to a keen perception of the power of human 
passions ! Yes, you do, but, alas, it brings you no 
benefits, — neither food nor clothing, neither consola- 
tion nor self-respect. How could it, indeed ? You have 
had no education, your mind is chaotic, — it cannot 
even direct your future course. It points nowhere to 
hope, but everywhere to despair; it tells you but one 
thing plainly, — that you are utterly helpless. 

Yet, you are still young, still beautiful. You do 
not want to die ; you shrink from the thought with 
terror, as a child shrinks from the dreadful Unknown. 
And to live, you must have shelter: you take the first 
one offered, — you live a life of tinselled gaiety until you 
gain courage to die, or, until you become so encrusted 
with misery that it takes the aspect of wickedness. 

But in reality you are not a depraved woman; you 
have a nature which shrinks from your surroundings, 



PASSIONATE WOMEN. 211 

and which, were a shadow of hope or help presented, 
you would gladly escape. Were your country like 
some other countries — older and wiser ones — you 
would not be where you are, forced into perpetual 
ignominy. You would be enabled to live even after 
committing one fault. You would find employment, 
you would receive respect in proportion to conduct,, 
you would still have the blessed hope of a home and 
happiness to cheer you in your hours of toil. But 
you are ignorant : you know nothing of other coun- 
tries and their customs, but think the world about you 
is all. Only when it is too late — when the strength of 
youth and hope have been exhausted — do you come 
to some realization of the utter absurdity and injustice 
of many social laws. There are many now looking 
at you and your class with feelings of profound pity 
and sympathy; but until reason shall become far more 
general, more humane in its judgments than it now 
is, your sex must suffer untold woes. 

Another type of woman is the one who has more 
passion than reason, more will than conscience, more 
opportunities than barriers in her position. Does it 
import whether she be queen or subject? whether in 
society or beyond its pale? whether rich or poor? 
whether beautiful in form and feature? or whether 
enticing and voluptuous without the personal beauty ? 
No, it matters not what the external aspects are — 
it is at the passionate woman we wish to glance. 

You felt your destiny in very girlhood, for without 
the least effort on your part you attracted men to your 
side and made them your captives. You knew the 
effects of power before you knew its source. Now you 



212 PASSIONATE WOMEN. 

know both, — you like them and mean to keep them 
up to the latest period possible. You are a sovereign 
in the realm of Love, and you feel yourself the peer 
of any other potentate the earth holds. Can we think 
it strange that you like power, that you count your 
conquests as a general counts his battles ? or, that you 
revel in the fame which is the certain attendant of suc- 
cess ? No, we do not wonder at this; we — all of us 
who are not sufferers through your caprices or tri- 
umphs — deem it perfectly natural that you should 
take all you can get. 

Why not? You are seducing, you are unscrupu- 
lous, you are reckless. There is a fund of animal spirits 
in you which finds a vent in prodigality, in adventures, 
in notoriety, — in all those things we like to read of 
and hear of when at a safe distance from their conse- 
quences. Were you our mother, sister, wife, friend, we 
should be, doubtless, less entertained by your episodes. 
We are all alike human in the sense of liking excite- 
ment, but none can live long without finding out that 
everything has two sides, two faces, two results ; that, 
consequently, even pleasure often produces pain. 

You, for instance, Queen of Love, you count your 
vassals by the score ; your days abound with adora- 
tion, with incense, with passionate homage; you arouse 
envy in the breasts of many other women who, perhaps, 
would esteem themselves fortunate if they had but one 
of your many worshippers. 

And yet, and yet, — there is another side to your 
brilliant career, O Queen ! Even you are made to feel 
that all things will not work to your wishes. Sov- 
ereign as you are, you must needs bear all the condi- 
tions of your lofty position. Your throne is no more 



PASSIONATE WOMEN. 213 

permanent than other thrones. You have rivals, ene- 
mies, risks, and perils to face. You are environed by 
those who would not hesitate to destroy you when- 
ever it shall suit their own interests so to do. They 
watch keenly your every imprudence, your every folly, 
and what they cannot do openly they do by intrigue, 
by lying, by calumny. 

Moreover, your allurements are on the wane. A 
Ninon has indeed perpetual youth, — but, you are not 
of that calibre. You have neither wit nor fancy, 
neither goodness nor esthetic tastes. Perhaps, the 
day has gone by when such qualities would be appre- 
ciated by your subjects ; for, although passions are the 
same, custom and opinion do not permit scholars and 
knights to throng your gates. Your mind is not one 
of liberal culture. It reasons feebly, sees but one or 
two phases of life, knows nothing beyond your own 
court circle. 

As for your heart, its pulsations are shared among 
too many claimants to yield you the slightest sensa- 
tion of the mystery you preside over. You have ban- 
queted so often and amid so great a profusion, that you 
have no longer any appreciation of either the delicate 
flowers of sentiment or of the red wine of passion. In 
truth, to Love, as other women know it, you are utterly 
insensible : at best, you experience only freaks, these 
but ephemeral. 

With every year's advance, then, you lose a portion 
of your kingdom. You know it and grow more im- 
perious through the very chagrin of that realization. 
But nothing saves you. Your throne has no foundation 
beyond the fleeting homage granted to youthful fire, 
graceful coquetry, and daring inconsequence. Your 

19 



214 



PASSIONATE WOMEN. 



dethronement comes apace at the hands of Nemesis. 
In your old age you are kingdomless, homeless, friend- 
less — worse than all — soulless. 

"Shameful conduct! Any woman can be strong if 
she chooses !" So speaks the immaculate matron who 
personates respectability : qnd so echoes the staid spin- 
ster who thinks of passion as synonymous with laxity 
of principle. 

But, dear women of character, tell me how do you 
know "Any woman can be strong"? Have you 
studied the records of human nature ? Or, do you, 
as I fear you do, acquire your ideas from a narrow 
code, framed by narrow minds and passionless tem- 
peraments? Is it just to judge other women's temp- 
tations by those that come to ourselves ? Assuredly, 
Nature must mean something by making us so differ- 
ent one from the other : and there can be no want of 
charity and kindness if we are quick to believe that 
every one does her best in her place with her temper- 
ament and training. 



LIARS, THIEVES, AND THE LIKE. 



Before me, in a tiny vase, is a sprig of Cape Jas- 
mine, a single creamy-white flower surrounded by six 
long, slender leaves. It sets forth a feast of fragrance 
and beauty so delicious that I wish others present to 
participate. Yet, the flower is not perfect. One side 
is full-blown, the other stunted, the leaves closely 
folded, as if shrinking from light and publicity. Can 
any one explain why this flower, so well developed on 
one side — every leaf thick, firm, spotless — should, by 
some occult agency, be dwarfed on the other side? 
This, too, when the entire stalk seems unusually 
strong, the leaves of vivid green and wondrous polish? 

So in human character, imperfect growth is found 
often in the noblest specimens. In one it is a physical 
deformity; in another a mental flaw; in another a 
moral weakness. Rarely indeed is there either the 
threefold endowment or the threefold development 
imagination fondly dwells upon as possible. And in 
looking for causes of a seeming unskilfulness in Na- 
ture, we find the key to many of them in psychology. 
From this we deduce that the question, Why are men 
liars, thieves, murderers? may be answered as satisfac- 
torily as the question, Why are men truthful, honest, 
philanthropic ? 

215 



2i6 LIARS, THIEVES, AND THE LIKE. 

To refuse to recognize the principle personified by 
the familiar term " Devil" is to deny the evidence of 
our senses, of our reasoning faculties, of our convic- 
tions. Were there no clear distinctions between good 
and evil, there could be no law, no order, no safety, no 
possibility of any of the advantages attributed to civ- 
ilization. To learn these distinctions, to examine their 
causes and effects, is to become competent to judge 
human actions fairly and charitably. To deem this 
subject not worth studying, or to avoid it because its 
revelations are painful or repulsive, is to render our- 
selves incompetent as members of society, and irre- 
sponsible in our special sphere. To "give the Devil 
his due" is to acknowledge the existence of intemper- 
ance, depravity, cruelty, and a legion of kindred facts. 

Crime admitted as inseparable from humanity, we 
are led to methods of prevention, amelioration, and pun- 
ishment. Incipient criminals are to be seen in every 
nursery where reason and training are lacking. P>ery 
home not subject to sound moral discipline cultivates 
the vices which germinate human suffering. What dif- 
ference between passion in a palace and passion in a 
hovel ? Murder is the same crime wherever committed 
or whatever the circumstances; every member of the 
community is liable to suffer through its ramifica- 
tions; every member is deeply interested in averting 
its propagation. But, until the source has become 
the chief object of research, the crime will flourish, 
spite of decapitation, the gallows, or the solitary cell. 

The worst crime may be the result of a petty habit, 
or of a lax principle. The criminal himself is at once 
the deepest enigma and the most startling lesson to 
his race. A casual observer is surprised at finding 



LIARS,. THIEVES, AND THE LIKE, 217 

that a murderer can have a pleasant countenance, or 
a gentle manner, or that he has warm friends. But, 
are we not all familiar with the marvellous changes 
of countenance caused by various sentiments and pas- 
sions ? Cupidity, hatred, revenge, lust, — either of these 
may so change the features as to make them tempo- 
rarily unrecognizable. That evil exists, that it is a 
part of every human being, that it is capable of re- 
straint or development, is a truth upon which hangs 
all that we call virtue and vice. Extremes serve to 
throw us back upon general laws. Crimes are the 
exceptional acts of exceptional beings. They merit 
study as specimens of human capability when at its 
lowest phase. 

The question which profoundly interests all men 
and all women is. How to induce morality? The 
most trivial act of a child intimates the tone of its 
morale. The most menial service of a dependant 
bears the stamp of good or evil. To realize this does 
not enable us to change the act, or the stamp: it 
merely furnishes us with power to counteract its effect. 
By knowing where danger lies we can take precau- 
tions to avoid it. By discovering the liar or the thief 
in our household, we are enabled to protect the inno- 
cent and deal justice to the guilty. We lose none of 
the zest of life by knowing that perils encompass us 
on every side. A quick comprehension of the flaws 
in a work of art never disqualifies us for apprecia- 
tion of its beauties. So in ethical problems. Train- 
ing the mind to see precisely to what degree evil 
affects mankind does not render it liable to morbid 
conditions. 

Cheerfully giving " the Devil his due," we at once 
19* 



2i8 LIARS, THIEVES, AND THE LIKE. 

find ourselves in charitable relations towards our fel- 
low-creatures. We expect nothing from them that 
their individual natures do not qualify them to give. 
We hold them entitled to all the privileges we our- 
selves claim, that is : 

To the cultivation of intelligence as the first of 
human rights. 

To the free choice of religious conviction or no- 
conviction. 

To the enjoyment of every boon compatible with 
morality and their neighbors' rights. 

To respect and confidence in proportion to conduct. 

Giving full measure of tribute to the spirit of evil, 
we grow discreet in our intercourse with humankind. 
We treat them with courtesy without giving them 
blind confidence; exercise justice towards them with- 
out losing sight of charity ; manifest forbearance for 
folly without participating in it. We may even feel 
ourselves deeply injured by certain ones among them 
without being rendered misanthropic ; we tolerate what 
cannot be eradicated, and are not embittered by our 
tolerance. 

Invalids, as a class, are a serious hindrance to the 
comfort of their race : yet, the exceptions are often 
much more delightful as companions than people of 
sound health. Sickness, then, as a condition of being, 
is not the worst of human ills: there is something be- 
hind it which produces far greater distress. This is 
psychological unsoundness. The psychologist and the 
physician stand upon common ground. Both are 
called upon to contend with human suffering; both 
look upon the principle Healing as the stimulus to ex- 



LIARS, THIEVES, AND THE LIKE. 219 

ertion; both think their profession worth a life-study; 
both reap honor in proportion to scientific research 
and personal character. 

The Church is the world's psychological college, 
and ministers are its professors. The Prison is the 
world's psychological hospital, with turnkeys for its 
nurses. Soul-sick people call for infinitely greater 
tenderness than the bodily-sick. Until this be recog- 
nized we must expect to be inundated with crime and 
harassed with its devastations. Sickness causes an 
involuntary shudder to people in sound health. Hap- 
pily, the physician is not thus affected. On the con- 
trary, he is attracted, interested, eager to discover 
means of amelioration or cure. Wickedness causes a 
similar shudder to people morally sound but of lim- 
ited understanding. 

The psychologist, however, is not shocked by de- 
formities or maladies of the soul. He sees in them 
clear manifestations of abnormal life : even where the 
direct cause of suffering is indefinable or obscure, he 
knows it exists. The disappointed, the unfortunate, 
the persecuted, the outlawed, the depraved, — all fur- 
nish him with cases of deep interest. He sees that 
thousands upon thousands are born into the world 
only to be thrust into a condition of suffering; that, 
exposed to its depressing influences without means of 
defence, it is not strange they should grow desperate or 
despairing. Pity melts him at the thought of the un- 
fathomable sadness which fills the human heart when 
the emptiness of externals is realized without the sup- 
port afforded by psychology. Not that this prevents 
the sadness: but it enables men to control and endure 
it. It yields a peace, a gladness, a broad sympathy, a 



220 LIARS, THIEVES, AND THE LIKE. 

universal tenderness; it forms a nucleus round which 
all other attributes of life crystallize. It fortifies 
against the inroads of physical ills or temporal mis- 
fortunes. It exceeds all other sciences in the strength 
it affords men in coping with Destiny. 

To be a psychologist a man must have been born 
with clear mental faculties and keen sensibilities. He 
must have endured and suffered much, have penetrated 
human life to the very core, have drained both pleas- 
ure and pain to the dregs. He must have known in- 
difference, ennui, disgust, no less than interest, enter- 
tainment, and attraction. He must have subjected 
himself to tests which alternately elated and humili- 
ated : must have felt supremely happy and supremely 
miserable. He must have lived an intense inner life, 
one in which inherited tendencies continually clashed 
with his intellectual and moral constitution; one which 
by incessant revolutions of emotion finally taught him 
the science of self-government. 

A psychologist by his very gifts is doomed to con- 
flicts — with himself, with others — and to solicitude. 
He is a predictor: knowing the advent of calamities, 
he is debarred from enjoyment of the present. Even 
while revelling in voluptuousness he is tormented by its 
evanescence or by premonition of its consequences. 
To enable him to understand the human soul, Nature 
has endowed him with faculties at once strong and 
weak, hot and cold. His entity is double. He is in 
turn an optimist and a pessimist: he sees justification 
of wrong as well as of right: he enters into argument 
for sensuality as easily as into one for asceticism. He 
is a creature of moods, of passions, of strangely-con- 
flicting desires, — yet, all these are in subjection to 



LIARS, THIEVES, AND THE LIKE. 22 1 

Reason. This fact, however, does not yield him hap- 
piness, nor does it excite the faintest degree of pride : 
it simply makes him what he is, — a being who from 
birth to death is absorbed in problems which relate to 
the soul. 

Ancestors of multiform inclinations, of diversified 
training, concentrate the predominant characteristic 
in one descendant. Thus Nature creates a scientist, 
a philanthropist, a theologian, a psychologist. The 
general traits of the last-named are the same whether 
observed in India or in America. He holds human 
nature to be the highest school of learning, not because 
of its abstract truths, but because of its direct effect 
upon living men and women. He studies the history 
of nations to learn traits of character common to in- 
dividuals. He studies individuals to discover of what 
nations are composed. He believes that the term 
Fate is synonymous with Destiny, with Nature, with 
Providence, with a number of other words representing 
the unseen force which sways human lives from begin- 
ning to end. To ignore this fact is, he thinks, to shut 
his eyes to truths more tangible than any in physical 
science. Fate is represented to every mortal by what 
he has— or has not — through inheritance, through 
surroundings, through influences. 

There is a touching story of a convict dying in an 
English prison after a forty-six years' incarceration. 
His daughter stated that he did not complain of the 
fare or treatment, but of the deprivation of books. 
His life might have been spared if he had been per- 
mitted to have books of history or geography. " He 
had nothing," she said, " but a Bible, a Prayer-Book, 



222 LIARS, THIEVES, AND THE LIKE. 

and tracts to read, and he knew them by heart." 
Poor man! Poor daughter! And this in the nine- 
teenth century, in a civilized Christian country I Tor- 
ture in our prisons is not yet aboHshed: the appli- 
ances only are changed. Instead of being used to 
dislocate the limbs and joints of the body, they are 
devised to tear the feelings and craze the brain. 
Alas for humanity, when we refuse to see Man in the 
criminal ! 

With rare exceptions, men are wretched without 
their comforts, their privileges, their associations. 
Glancing at those immediately under our notice, it 
is appalling to think what A. would be without his 
business, his wealth : B. without his snug home, in- 
dustrious wife, and pretty children : C. without her 
household cares : D. without her dress, her visiting, 
her gossip ! Who would wish to deprive men of 
even their most miserable props? 

Were Fate awarded its fitting place, there could be 
no judges of humanity, only helpers and pitiers. 

Some men are born honest, industrious, self poised : 
they live quiet lives, finding fault neither with others 
nor with themselves. They accept the religion of 
their country as they do its laws, without comment, 
without reflection. They make good citizens, good 
husbands, good fathers. 

Some men are born dishonest, lazy, erratic : they 
live turbulent lives, clamoring for others' gifts, and, 
when denied, stealing them or vilifying their pos- 
sessors. They refuse not only religion, but what is far 
more important — morality. They acknowledge no law 
save self-interest and passion. They make bad citizens, 
bad husbands, bad fathers: they diffuse endless deso- 



LIARS, THIEVES, AND THE LIKE. 223 

lation in the community, require incessant vigilance, 
and fill the prisons. 

One of the most curious phases of human nature is 
the tendency to cry out against weaknesses or crimes 
as if they were inhuman — in the sense of abnormal or 
unnatural. 

Liars — for instance, — are there none in the world 
save those who are directly accused of the fact? 
Surely, we cannot look far without perceiving that 
many who throw up their hands in horror upon con- 
fronting a liar, are yet daily living out the self-same 
principle. It seems to be a matter of kind and degree 
more than an actual difference of nature which creates 
shame and disgrace as to certain frailties. 

Strictly speaking — from a purely moral standpoint 
— liars are to be found in every community, in every 
class : the modes of expression vary in accordance 
with character and occasion. Who is not familiar 
with the pleasant lies of society that fall so glibly from 
the most truth-loving people! And who thinks of 
resenting them, unless they clash with our self-love 
or our interests 1 

To be told by acquaintances that we look well — 
even when aware that we look ill — is not disagreeable. 
Or, to be told, in accents of conviction, that we do 
certain things skilfully, when we know it is mere 
bungling; that we give pleasure by our presence, 
when we are absolutely certain that we are creating 
discomfort; that we are peculiarly "sensitive," when 
other language would make it peculiarly "ill-tem- 
pered;" that our Christian graces are admirable, when 
we feel their source to be simply spiritual pride, — these 



224 LIARS, THIEVES, AND THE LIKE. 

and similar lies are, it must be admitted, both pleasant 
and useful. 

Society lies are, besides, not necessarily spoken ones. 
They come often in the form of a gesture, a smile, a 
frown, an act of courtesy, a mental reserve. In fact, 
the varieties in kind and color are so numerous, so 
habitual, so much a part of manner, voice, and actions, 
that by common consent they are not called lies at all. 
Nor is this sort of lying confined, as some narrow- 
minded people think, to society in its technical mean- 
ing. On the contrary, it is no less frequently found in 
the circles called Religious, Commercial, Judicial, and 
Domestic. Indeed, the capability and facility of lying, 
exhibited in all classes and organizations, open curi- 
ous speculations as to the elasticity of even our best 
faculties. Every country has a certain standard of 
what is termed " honor," a something by which every 
class agrees to abide or else suffer the penalty of vio- 
lation. Doubtless, it would be impossible for any 
association to exist without some such code; but 
those who look beyond the letter of things cannot 
avoid perceiving that the spirit of lying is the same in 
one place and in one person as in another. 

Thieves seem, at first sight, to be less numerous 
than liars. But, upon penetrating external forms and 
compromises, we find the propensity which makes 
those troublesome members of society, in many high 
and unexpected places. Under various names, thieves 
are scattered throughout every community, and even 
with all the precautions furnished by education, law, 
and religion, we are liable, at any moment, to be 
exposed to their depredations. From the thief who 
seizes a loaf of bread or a coat, to the one who appro- 



LIARS, THIEVES, AND THE LIKE. 



225 



priates thousands of dollars or a book full of ideas, 
are seen all the grades that human nature and civilized 
society combined can furnish. 

If, then, it be granted that the germ of thieving — 
like that of lying — exists in human nature, it will be 
recognized as merely one truth of the broad doctrine 
Humanity. All men have in them the possibilities of 
goodness and wickedness: as individuals, they have 
more of one or more of the other, opportunities of 
development or means of repression. To guard our- 
selves against thieves is as necessary as to guard 
ourselves against pestilence. Yet in neither case can 
legislation do more than punish the overt act or pro- 
vide sanitary measures. It cannot root out a single 
evil desire, cannot annihilate noxious vapors. 

If we glance at the people we somewhat vaguely 
designate ''our friends," and note their respective 
tendencies, we cannot but be thankful for the wisdom 
which makes not only stringent laws for criminals, but 
likewise those barriers called custom, opinion, and 
morality. And what others of our class and training 
are capable of, we ourselves are of course not exempt 
from. As human beings we may well feel and express 
gratitude, not for being better than others are, but 
for being withheld by combined endowment and hin- 
drances from being worse than we are. Even as it is, 
the so-called "good" among us have but small reason 
for pride or self-complacency. Can we not easily im- 
agine the array of selfish qualities and ungenerous 
actions that would quickly come to light, were the 
restrictions now upon us removed ? Indeed, nothing 
is more forcibly impressed upon us than that life would 
speedily become wholly unendurable were there no 



226 LIARS, THIEVES, AA'D THE LIKE. 

checks to most of our impulses and inclinations. 
Where one poet would forego everything ignoble for 
the sake of esthetic principle, a thousand utilitarians 
Avould boldly usurp human rights. Or, where one 
philanthropist would labor for the race, a horde of 
barbarians would unscrupulously appropriate both the 
bodies and the souls of their cotemporaries. 

Liars, thieves, and the like, — what truth in Nature 
^do they set forth? How are they to be regarded by 
their fellow-citizens ? What shall be our own relations 
— mental and moral — with them ? At the very outset 
it may be as well to fix our minds upon the fact that 
they form an important class in society, and that they 
can never — as a class — be either changed or extermi- 
nated. They always have been, always will be. It 
is a belief which some repudiate, but which would be 
as impossible to disprove as that bad seed could pro- 
duce good fruit. 

The existence of an evil acknowledged, the next 
step is to devise means of controlling or counteracting 
it. Here is the point where all of us are interested — 
selfishly or unselfishly — and where the best we have 
in us may find full employment. Not that many of 
us can, in a direct, active sense, be philanthropists : for 
that, special faculties and training are requisite. But, 
in turning the best of our own endowments and oppor- 
tunities into a channel which may help others, we are 
virtually solving the problem of crime and criminals. 
Do we ever hear of wise men being surprised that 
crime should exist, that its manifestations are frequent 
and repulsive ? And this equanimity is not the result 
of apathy or of immorality: it is simply because of 



LIARS, THIEVES, AND THE LIKE. 



227 



wisdom. Knowing what human nature is, they are 
not astonished at even its worst phases. They do not 
rail against mankind because thieves and murderers 
exist in every community; but, they hold such speci- 
mens of mankind as inseparable from communities, as 
much and as natural a part of them as honest and vir- 
tuous men are. 

Yet, while admitting incontestable facts, such men 
do not stultify their intelligence by advocating license 
to criminals for the indulgence of their propensities. 
Quiet, inoffensive, industrious people are to be pro- 
tected, to be allowed room for the spread of their vir- 
tues, for the enjoyment of their firesides. With this 
beneficent object Law and Force are instituted. To 
imagine a community without such aids is to imagine 
reckless depredation and persecution, all the evils and 
horrors of anarchy. If we see that laws and punish- 
ments are not perfectly equitable, not likely to meet 
a given exigency, we see only the imperfection that 
exists in every part of humanity. The most and the 
best a mortal can do is to help — through his own 
probity and fidelity — the imperfection he perceives. 
As to the mode he adopts — whether by Law, Church, 
Philanthropy, or Philosophy — this is of slight conse- 
quence compared to the principles that animate his 
endeavors. 



2^. 
CONFIDANTS. 



The people we meet daily in our households, in 
our business, in our pleasures, constitute a world that 
requires us to do certain things. Not that its orders 
are always given in peremptory language ; but they 
are nevertheless so emphatically pronounced, so cun- 
ningly adapted to our position and capability, that 
misapprehension is impossible, and disobedience very 
impolitic. Now, as a rule, this world referred to is 
not overstocked with either physical strength or 
philosophical principles : consequently, the human 
traits in it are apt to become troublesome. It has 
curiosity ; it wants to be amused, stimulated ; it wants 
to profit by others' industry and energy. So that, 
if we good-naturedly incline to minister to these 
wants, we can do so by confiding all that we know 
— of ourselves and of others — into this world's ear. 
But, before we do so, we shall do well to consider 
how far our condescension may prove beneficial or 
mischievous. 

Over-reserve may bring us cold looks, unjust criti- 
cism, unkind judgment. But, over-confidence is sure 
to bring us much worse things, and so many of them 
that we shrink from enumeration. By all means let 
the world have from us its rightful claims, but this 
228 



CONFIDANTS. 229 



without makins^ it our confessor. If we do so. 



't> 



we 



violate one of the first laws of self-preservation: it 
destroys our freedom through the privileges it gives 
intruders, meddlers, vagrants. Granted that we know 
enough about the human nature in us to make us 
modest, humble ; that we see certain blemishes and 
defects which can never be eradicated. Yet, laying 
these bare to the world they acquire so exaggerated 
a form that we ourselves no longer recognize them : 
we lose self-confidence, grow disheartened. 

Many of us, even when principled against it, fall 
into this error: doing so, we bring about very dis- 
agreeable results. We are misunderstood, ridiculed, 
persecuted. Casual remarks are taken as fixed prin- 
ciples ; embryo theories are stamped as perfected ex- 
periences ; visionary hopes are seized as contraband 
realities ; passionate desires are transformed into reck- 
less excesses ; pictures of Imagination are hung upon 
walls of Fact and ingenuous spectators made to ac- 
cept the illusion ; refinement of conduct is interpreted 
into fastidiousness ; sensitiveness into irritability; self- 
respect into pride; enthusiasm into ambition; natural 
reserve into wilful exclusiveness ; warm sympathy for 
others into sentimental folly. Endless the list which 
should give in full the means of persecution which 
frankness towards the world generates ! 

To escape such a hindrance to a normal life ^y^ry 
legitimate means may be made available. If the world 
receive from us our daily tributes of conformity m 
dress, manner, action, what more does it need ? Why 
tell it of our disappointments, of our strifes, of our 
moral errors, of our painful humiliations? To live 
calmly amid tumult; to work steadily with pleasure 

20* 



230 CONFIDANTS. 

at our elbow; to keep our eyes upon beauty while our 
feet are torn by rough stones and sharp thorns ; to 
realize that age and infirmity are ahead, while we feel 
the hot blood of youth coursing through our veins, — 
these things are not easy. Yet all of us are required 
to make some attempt towards their attainment ; and 
to confide in the world, renders those things far more 
difficult to pursue, far more difficult to seize. The 
questions it cannot comprehend, it treats with flip- 
pancy; the aims which interfere with its projects are 
pronounced idealistic; the teachings which lessen the 
number of its votaries are combated with stormy par- 
tisanship and reckless harangue. 

Frankness between equals is as natural as affection, 
as sympathy, as any of those results which arise from 
reciprocity of sentiment. Frankness- towards those 
either above or below us is unnatural and productive 
of mischief In the first instance, we awaken pity or 
contempt: in the second, we put weapons into the 
hands of those who use them against us. 

All who are not our equals in intellect stand to 
us in the relation of children. To confide weighty 
opinions or heart-searchings to children, is to make 
them needlessly uncomfortable and render them liable 
at any moment to injure ourselves. We can associate 
with children and find it the most agreeable of relax- 
ations : but, to tell them of our life- discipline is to 
awaken their distrust and suspicion. Who would 
commit the egregious mistake of confiding his inner 
self to any human being save under two conditions, — 
soul-relationship and equal culture ? The temptation, 
undoubtedly, is a strong, ever-present one. It seems 
to lessen the load we bear to speak of it to others ; we 



CONFIDANTS. 



231 



crave sympathy, and are not always prudent or scru- 
pulous in our manner of seeking it. 

" There is scarcely any man," says Southey, " with 
whom the whole of my being comes in contact; and 
thus with different people I exist another and yet the 

same. With , for instance, the school-boy feelings 

revive; I have no other association with him. With 
some I am the moral and intellectual agent; with 
others I partake the daily and hourly occurrences of 
life." Every one of deep feeling experiences similar 
differences. 

Standing just where you are and looking at social 
life, imagine the consequences of indiscriminate frank- 
ness. What extraordinary revelations would ensue ! 
What commotions in public and private circles ! 
W^hat instant rending of domestic ties, of friendly re- 
lations ! Confusion and misery would be increased 
a hundred-fold through that one fact. Fortunately, 
there are restraints upon confiding people. Affection, 
courtesy, charity, reason, — these prevent the full ex- 
pression of thought and feeling, and thus preserve the 
equihbrium of society. 

Were you — and you — and you — these singled out 
from among my friends and enemies — to make the 
world your confidant, could you not give some very 
singular, perhaps some rather startling facts ? I am 
quite positive you could. But of what use? None 
whatever, save to bring upon yourself staring eyes, 
venomous tongues, painful misconstruction. You are 
right, then, in withholding your confidences. Life is 
by no means a simple affair : it is full of contradictions 
and perplexities, so full that the wisest among us 



232 CONFIDANTS. 

make no profession of understanding it. Yet neither 
you nor I need hold ourselves responsible for the 
impressions life makes upon us : they are made, — 
that is all we know. 

Suppose it be an inherited trait — say pride — you 
have to contend with. Would it help you at all to 
tell the world just how it worries and harasses your 
days? No — it would only hinder your attempts to 
subdue or counteract its force. You felt it working 
in your nature long before you named it. Then, 
when recognized, it was a spirit of dark, forbidding 
aspect, always ready with hateful whisperings to mar 
a pleasant hour. It mingled continually with your 
pursuits, causing that unrest which brings forth dis- 
satisfaction with what is, longing for what is not and 
cannot be. The peculiar circumstances of your career, 
you knew, were decreed long before you saw the 
light ; no prayers, no tears, no resistance, could avert 
the sentence thus entailed. You bowed before the 
inevitable, but submission does not preclude suffering. 
Then came hours when you thought the spirit's 
power broken, yourself secure for the remainder of 
life. Fatuous hope! When is man ever secure from 
passion ? As an inheritance you may see the flaw 
and deplore its blighting effect, while utterly unable 
to eradicate the cause. Aware of its continual pres- 
ence, you do at times contrive to elude its subtle 
methods of attack: but nothing can prevent the occa- 
sional paroxysm which prostrates you beneath self- 
respect and leaves you writhing in the dust. That 
over, there comes a reaction in the form of self- 
reproach, one that sweeps over the soul like a whirl- 
wind, forcing from it the cry, 



CONFIDA NTS. 233 

Avaunt, Pride! Gross, earth-born, moved only by 
unworthy aims, thou art justly abhorred by me ! Yet, 
you cannot do battle with such a spirit^again and 
again you have come out of the conflict worsted. But 
this you can, and so help you heaven will do — you will 
fill your soul with so noble a purpose that everything 
base must flee from its presence. Moreover, you can 
draw from it — from that spirit — the magic which skills 
you in fathoming other human beings likewise in the 
thrall of Fate. To other hearts you can say, as to your 
own : 

Suffer, bend, but do not break! It will pass, this 
fiery ordeal, — you will again know peace and tran- 
quillity. You cannot escape the risks to which your 
nature exposes you. Not one can be spared from 
the ranks of this struggling, toiling army called Hu- 
manity. Should you be in your place, see what you 
see, be what you are, were there naught for you to 
do ? Perhaps, by the law of sympathy, you find 
solace in the thought that whatever you endure — 
by inheritance or otherwise — is, in varied forms, en- 
dured by other mortals. 

Passions of different kinds are in effects very simi- 
lar. If not pride, it may be love, hate, jealousy, or a 
hot temper that gives you a life-work of contention. 
And it is not of necessity an inherited trait, but just 
as liable to be one acquired through your own laxity 
of will or conscience. You may have natural mental 
abilities of unusual force, while actually you are frit- 
tering them away in idle amusements. You are, 
possibly, not bad-hearted by endowment, but through 
habitual falsity to your higher self you give daily 
evidence to those about you of very ugly feelings, 



234 CONFIDANTS. 

very cruel intentions. In short, you may be any- 
thing in character expressed by the words good and 
bad — or anything between those two extremes — and 
yet be under no obHgation to tell the world how it 
came to be. 

With one kind of person only is it safe to be frank, 
— with the student of human nature. He alone ar- 
rives at any fair estimation of man as he is, of woman 
as she is. He takes delight in the very diversity of 
character which to non-students seems so disagree- 
ably perplexing. He analyzes not" from curiosity, 
but from an earnest desire to attain a practical result. 
The experiences which make a master in science are 
not always pleasing to the senses or feelings. He 
must mingle freely with all manner of people, submit 
to puerile customs, live a life of enforced conformity, 
before learning the truths which are to serve his pur- 
pose. Here then — in this student's ear — you may 
be as confiding as you please, and cause no mis- 
apprehension. You might say : I have long since 
given up the enigma called life, and am capable of 
enthusiasm in two directions only — work and love. 
My brain supplies me with the first. The second is 
represented by a living human being whom the world 
calls . I call her by so many and such extrava- 
gant titles that it seems prudent not to give them 
sound or form. Enough that I know them and that 
to me they personate the best gift of existence. With 
this reality to brood over, dream upon, rest my soul 
in, I am in a state of content which no earthly change 
can ruffle. As for what men call " death," " the next 
state," "heaven," "hell" — these possess no interest 
whatever for me. I deem them unworthy of a thinker's 



CONFIDANTS. 



235 



consideration. Once I pondered, speculated, crazed 
my brain in the vain endeavor to know the Unknow- 
able. Theology, Materialism, Spiritualism, Science, — 
all were in turn consulted and renounced as teachers ; 
all were finally rejected as inefficient, unreliable. They 
instructed me to their utmost ability : having served 
their purpose they were set aside as useless. The 
few facts which reason accepts, and which enable this 
machine called Body and Soul to perform its func- 
tions, are soon named : Eat, Drink, Sleep, Work, Love. 
With these incorporated into my being as the sole aim 
of the remaining years of existence on this planet, I 
look with amazement at the multiform occupations 
and vexations of my fellow-creatures. Like a lover 
writing to a long-sought and just-found mistress, I 
exclaim : 

How comes it that, after being the butt of Fortune 
during so many years, after sounding the capacity 
of divers pursuits and finding all alike futile for the 
absorption of vitality, — how comes it, I say, that you 
should have been found and given into my posses- 
sion ? Explain it, — this event, this accident, this un- 
real reality, this miracle, this something wholly unlike 
any other thing Nature ever deigned to give me. 

The above is but a mood of one mortal's mind : 
in another mood he might express convictions or 
impressions widely different. If man, then, be so 
changeable, so impressionable, so prone to be swayed 
by imagination, of what avail that he shpuld make 
a confidant of a world which, for the most part, is 
quick to judge from the barest shreds of thought or 
action! No ! let him rather say with Voltaire : 

" Resignons-nous a la destinee qui se moque de 



236 



CONFIDANTS. 



nous et qui nous emporte ; vivons tant que nous 
pourrons : nous ne serons jamais aussi heureux que 
les sots ; mais tachons de letre a notre maniere. . . . 
" Le plus grand bien auquel on puisse pretendre 
est de mener une vie conforme a son etat et a son 
goiat. Quand on est venu la, on n'a point a se 
plaindre, et il faut souffrir ses coliques patiemment." 

In a child, a confiding disposition is one of its most 
attractive traits ; when this is missing, the condition 
seems un-childlike, to a certain extent repulsive. The 
child who most strongly appeals to our sympathies is 
he who greets every new day and event with fearless 
confidence. Bright, buoyant, happy in ignorance, he 
enjoys the present because unalloyed with experience. 
Yet if a child be non-confiding there must be good 
cause. Perhaps he has a feeling of duty associated 
with the word *' confide," while at the same time the 
very one towards whom he should naturally turn in 
moments of embarrassment has a manner which effect- 
ually checks confidence. Rather than open his heart 
there he would forego his washes, or endure pain in 
silence. But the frankness vainly demanded by a 
usurper is spontaneously given to the rightful claim- 
ant : even in children, the soul of strong fibre rebels 
utterly against coercion, wdiile it yields rejoicingly to 
its companion-soul. 

So with people. Because your neighbors, in a tone 
of modified dislike, call you " so very reserved," you 
are not, by that verdict, made actually unsocial : your 
humanity makes that impossible. True, you cannot 
unbend before a dissimilar temperament : you are 
happier in an ideal companionship than when with 



CONFIDANTS. 237 

associates to whom you dare not show your real self. 
Something in your temperament warns you against 
misplaced confidences ; and if, as occasionally hap- 
pens, you disregard the warning, you are punished by 
the consequences of laxity of tongue. But, put you 
in a congenial atmosphere, and instantly your reserve 
dissolves, Yoii do not care then whether you are 
beautiful or ugly, graceful or awkward, distinguished 
or obscure. You feel your personality — whatever its 
grade — without being abashed by it : you are willing 
others should see it, and are not disturbed by their 
judgment of its quality. 

Reserved people have greater need than any others 
for a confidant, but it must be one fitly chosen, one 
who will understand and console and help. Perhaps 
only you who belong to this class can rightly under- 
stand them. You, at least, know that they are not as 
cold, as unloving, as they appear; that there is, some- 
where deep down in their natures, that which would 
gladly respond to the fitting summons. To many 
it never comes — that summons : at least, must you 
not so infer from the listless manner and hopeless 
faces you see about you ? You feel like dealing very 
tenderly with such lonely natures, debarred as they 
are through mental constitution, or through personal 
error, from social good will. You are not surprised 
that they become indifferent to externals, that their 
tempers are morose, their voices harsh, their features 
set in discontent. Can nothing help them ? nothing 
change their condition ? Yes — you think something 
might; but it is a remedy very difficult to obtain. It 
is called Know Yourself. 

21 



ERRATIC PEOPLE. 



The vagabond temperament subjected to the re- 
straints of civilized life produces some very curious 
results. It makes a cross between sober unpossessed 
respectability and the actual madness of poets, artists, 
and lovers. The people thus affected are called "er- 
ratic," " queer," " original," " eccentric," " crazy," the 
special signification of those terms being dependent 
upon the speaker's understanding. These people are, 
in spirit, many degrees above conventionality, but in 
action just as many degrees above vagrancy. 

This midway position makes them look at both sides 
too often for their own comfort : it weakens the power 
of choice. They believe in law and order for the 
community, hence dare not refuse their own moiety 
of conformity. They advocate individual freedom, yet 
fully recognize the risks attendant upon temperament 
and opportunity. This makes them bold in thought, 
but conservative in action. While feeling keenly, they 
simulate indifference: while protesting against conven- 
tionality, they yield to its pressure. They like the 
ease and comfort of domestic life, but shrink from its 
cares, are fretted by its regulations. While craving ad- 
ventures^ — everything opposed to formality — they are 
238 



ERRATIC PEOPLE. 



239 



either too indolent to seek them or too timid to act a 
part in them. Their inner Hfe is strongly marked, while 
their external one is feebly outlined, faintly colored. 

Repression of self seems to be their central prin- 
ciple, yet, acting upon it, they feel as if defrauded. 
They are provokingly inconsistent. They excite curi- 
osity without gratifying it; seem always to promise 
more than they give forth ; fire enthusiasm, but run 
away from the explosion. They feel themselves 
capable of being very much or very little of almost 
anything in any direction. They alternate between 
preciseness and carelessness, between earnestness and 
frivolity; are at one time over-scrupulous, and at 
another verge on recklessness. 

They are struggling between two powerful forces — 
temperament and conventionality. They are in the 
position of one to whom all the fruits of the season 
are proffered in the hour when he desires only bread 
or water. When to others they seem most inex- 
cusable, most enigmatical, to themselves the causes 
are most justifiable, most explicable. They often 
feel like Shirley when she says, " Not my private 
conscience, you must understand, but my landed- 
proprietor-and-lord-of-the-manor conscience." 

So these erratic people act in one hour upon their 
vagabond-temperament conscience, and in the next, 
upon their respectable-position-and-expedient-conven- 
tional conscience. Living in a century which respects 
certain rules as emblematic of intelligence, of taste, 
of morality — almost of sanity — and unwilling to shake 
popular belief in their orthodox civilization, they think 
it well to devote some portion of vitality to consulting 
the notions of said century. 



240 ERR A TIC PEOPLE. 

The vagabond temperament is a demon which can 
never be wholly exorcised. At best it can only be 
fettered: even then the clanking links, the flashing 
eye and excited tones of the prisoner betray his im- 
patient, unruly nature. And the closest guard cannot 
prevent it from occasionally breaking its bonds and 
working its will. 

That this demon should wage perpetual warfare 
with conventionality, is inevitable. Sometimes there 
is victory on one side, sometimes on the other; but, 
as in all kinds of warfare, the great issues are often 
lost sight of in the multitude of petty personal am- 
bitions and jealousies that exhaust human strength. 
Becoming partisans, we are wholly incapacitated for 
either clear judgment or lofty enthusiasm. Those 
only who see both sides without participating in the 
fray, are found competent to see the identical mingling 
of good and bad that is everywhere perceptible. 

Forms are indispensable to organization : they give 
♦ punctuality, method, strength, durability. Society calls 
its forms by the general term conventionality. This 
prescribes how much or how little shall be given to 
every individual. It decides questions of dress, of 
occupation, of amusement; deals forth permission or 
prohibition as to our companions ; relieves us of all 
responsibility in those nebulous regions called re- 
ligion, sentiment, and passion. Right and wrong, 
happiness and unhappiness, are not, under its regime, 
permitted discussion. They are to be accepted in an 
appointed form, or not at all. 

Sober, unpossessed people constitute the bulwark 
of conventionality. They are usually well-clad, well- 
behaved, easy-going mortals. They never ask trouble- 



ERRATIC PEOPLE. 24 1 

some questions, never want to do things out of place 
or season : they are never wearied by respectability. 
They conform to any law or custom which happens 
to be in vogue, do it as easily as if born for that 
very purpose, — which, doubtless, they were. They 
are respectable : they know it, and nod contentedly 
over the fact. They could not live either comfortably 
or religiously without it: they could not die easily 
or peacefully without it. They smile benignly upon 
all who belong to their ranks, but frown grimly upon 
all who doubt or resist their authority. 

In domestic life respectability takes the aspect of 
a methodical, well-regulated family, where duties are 
doled out to young and old irrespective of personal 
tastes or wishes. In public life respectability is per- 
sonated by manners and principles carefully adapted 
to the popular demand. Its votaries seek above all 
else to avoid clashing with things that are, and hold 
innovation as hazardous to prosperity. In one sense 
they are right. 

Respectability is a good thing ; in its best definition 
it is civilization itself. And who can doubt that this, 
with all its undercurrents of sham, hypocrisy, and cor- 
ruption, is yet the best thing humanity has found! To 
be discontented with it is to find 'fault with life — a 
great mistake: the fault, if anywhere, is in ourselves. 
Yet, because respectability is good, we need not call 
all other things bad. 

A man of erratic temperament does not on that ac- 
count want to break away from reasonable usages and 
do wild and wicked things. He wishes simply to live 
a natural rather than an artificial life; but, this wishing 
does not necessarily bring it about. Suppose he have 



242 ERRATIC PEOPLE. 

that temperament combined with a weak will. Circum- 
stances — not choice — have put him into a distasteful 
business career; but, seeing the difficulties environing 
other men in other pursuits, he does not complain. 
But, in addition, there is a barrier to content which 
can neither be overcome nor removed. He is mar- 
ried to a woman of conservative temperament and a 
strong will. 

Respectability, to her understanding, means, having 
everything that everybody else has : and this prin- 
ciple, acted upon by her will, makes her influence an 
irresistible force in the family. Under it, her husband 
devotes himself to business, not only to acquire a 
maintenance, but a fortune : nothing less than that 
will satisfy the wants of such a wife and a family bred 
under such a mother. Business, then, to this man be- 
comes a toil by day and by night ; for, to one whose 
entire energies are bent upon accumulating money, 
the setting sun fails to bring any sense of repose. 
Care, anxiety, and apprehension are the thorns which 
penetrate the softest pillow when a man's goal is 
material wealth. He sacrifices health, mind, feeling, 
the best of himself as man, for "his family": so he 
says, so others like him say. 

If a man have absolutely no thoughts, tastes, or 
feelings beyond his business, he is right in merging 
his whole being there. Being honest in that ab- 
sorption, we can respect him; and, what is better, 
he will respect himself. But this man has tastes of 
a marked intellectual character. With development 
they would carry him, if not to fame, at least to a 
very high grade of happiness. He feels this inces- 
santly amid all the hours of toil and anxiety; and, 



ERRATIC PEOPLE. 



243 



feeling it, cannot be at peace with himself or with 
others. 

Yet, what to do? Wife and children are not like 
himself; they are not satisfied with the necessaries of 
life merely, but want all the luxuries they see around 
them. They are unreasoning and unreasonable; they 
clamor until the husband and father gives up his own 
tastes to the vain delusion of making them happy. 
But this giving up brings no success, because his occu- 
pation is mechanical instead of hearty. His nature is 
ill adapted for business: yet in no other way can he 
procure the means for maintaining in due state the 
household god, Respectability. 

Can a man living thus be cheerful, buoyant? Can 
he know any of the best things of existence when 
thoughts are repressed, feelmgs smothered? Impos- 
sible ! Whatever his manner — for cheerfulness can be 
assumed — he himself is not the man he would and 
might be. The money earned and spent brings him 
no satisfaction; for the first is at cost of his soul- 
vitality, and the second is wholly against his per- 
sonal convictions of use or taste. At middle-age he 
is dispirited. He has not acquired a fortune, his tem- 
perament disqualified him for that; finally, he has no 
hope of change, for, wife and children bind him down 
to the position he long ago weakly accepted. 

Is it to be wondered at if, under this chafing, tem- 
perament lead him into habits and ways which, while 
offering a temporary relaxation from the strain of re- 
spectability-worship, yet gradually wreck his character 
and his home? Men are not what they might be — 
not invulnerable — not perfect; and the best among 
them never profess to be. But, in summing up their 



244 



ERRATIC PEOPLE. 



deeds or misdeeds, women may justly check their 
reproaches and denunciations with the reflection: In 
what respect — as human beings — are we better? In 
not one: would be the candid, truthful answer of the 
best of their sex. To make any other, would be to 
accuse Nature of partiality in the creation of one of 
her noblest works — a manifest absurdity. 

If men of vagabond temperament marry young, their 
chances are nine to one of unhappiness. For in that 
proportion only may it be reasonably expected to find 
the kind of mind which would make congeniality of 
character the basis of choice in a life-companion. The 
other nine would not choose at all, but would fall into 
matrimony through a passing fancy, through conven- 
tional motives, through sheer thoughtlessness. 

Another kind of erratic man, one of strong will, 
offers a very different illustration. He rules the family, 
instead of being ruled by it; his judgment decides in 
what degree respectability shall become the household 
altar. He is not a sluggard in his business or profes- 
sion, but he takes recreation as well, deeming it indeed 
an essential of true life. He reaches middle-age under 
a full realization of the value of existence for himself 
and for others. 

His mind has not been thrust into a corner to rust, 
but kept bright and active with daily culture. His 
feelings have not been denied their rights, but nour- 
ished with affections and kindly offices. If his tem- 
perament be, as he acknowledges, an obstacle to some 
kinds of success, it is nevertheless replete with indem- 
nifications. It brings him more of the real treasures 
of life in one year than come to other men, of other 
temperament, in a score of years. 



ERR A TIC PEOPLE. 245 

His wife and children, although not erratic, have 
caught enough of his spirit to understand his wishes 
and to be guided by them. And this without any 
sense of serviHty, for their own happiness is insensibly 
but surely enhanced by the atmosphere of content 
pervading the home. When no spurious principle is 
at the foundation, there are few women and children 
who cannot be happy with moderate circumstances. 
When they crave the show and glitter of fashion, it 
is usually because they are not provided with other 
things to fill up the vacuum of idleness. 

Upon women, respectability has a much more power- 
ful effect than upon men. A woman of conservative 
temperament, born to a fixed position, say in middle life, 
has little chance of knowing either herself or the world. 
Her home is one of average comfort. As a child she 
is fed, clothed, taught, amused: during girlhood these 
things are continued with more or less strictness or 
indulgence. She follows routine partly because it is 
her nature, partly because she has never heard of any- 
thing else. She is respectable as a matter of course, 
without any effort: neither her mind nor her tempera- 
ment can conceive of a different career. 

There are multitudes of such women, and, while 
their limited experiences make them rather monoto- 
nous as companions, we are all ready to grant their 
wide usefulness to society. Indeed, we can hardly 
think of an average comfortable home without in- 
stantly associating at least one of such women in 
some way connected with its management. But 
Nature has a profound dislike to repetition. Her 
human work, especially, is full of variety, so that after 



246 ERRATIC PEOPLE. 

studying all types we seem to discover just as many 
new ones. 

So among women In middle life are found many 
specimens of vagabond temperament. Here is one 
who performs in the usual drama of Respectability 
without learning to like it. Even as a child she resists 
forms and methods: in dress, in manner, in intercourse 
with people, in education, she is perpetually at vari- 
ance with custom. But when she rebels openly she 
is made to suffer for her temerity. She is called hard 
names, is frowned upon, is rebuked, is told, in every 
variation of tone and manner, that she is '' too queer 
for anything." 

Womanhood reached, she misses its best benefits 
because of the onerous duties of young-ladyhood. 
Once she had looked forward to being "grown up" as 
a period of release from irksome restraints: but they 
are no less severe, the names only are changed. To 
have everything and yet nothing, to be in company 
and yet painfully lonely, to be playing a part when 
she would fain be natural, — this is her lot. With head 
and heart full, she is expected to act as if both were 
empty. 

If her will were strong she would refuse to do the 
distasteful things daily required of her. But, with 
her repugnance to those things, is that odd mingling 
of conscientiousness and fear which makes the attri- 
bute called compliance. She represses manifestations 
of dislike and forces herself to obey other people's 
opinions and whims. She acts upon the essentially 
feminine logic that every one else's rights are more 
to be looked after than her own. 

True, such words would fall strangely upon some 



ERRATIC PEOPLE. 



247 



of the ears around her, those who, not understanding 
the vagabond temperament, coldly pronounce her " self- 
ishly exclusive." Not a pleasant sensation this — to be 
considered something ugly and heartless, considered 
so by perhaps the nearest of kin — but it comes and 
must be borne, patiently or otherwise. What if she 
know that it is only a semblance of selfishness, that in 
reality her nature is not made of such villainous stuff! 
Her knowing cannot make others know : nothing 
remains but involuntarily to give annoyance, to give 
offence, and take the painful consequences. 

Yet, this is not done without conflicts severe and 
long- continued. The perplexing questions. How far 
shall I yield to natural wishes ? to feelings ? How 
much conform to opinion? to custom? are continually 
coming up, and as often dismissed without satisfactory 
answers. By day and by night she wrestles with the 
contradictions around her and the possibilities sug- 
gested by reason. With her profound admiration for 
individuality in other characters, her own weak sub- 
mission to guidance is a matter for wonderment — even 
to herself Why live thus in a tame, mechanical sub- 
servience to customs which instinct and reason alike 
reject ? And to make it worse, there are hours when 
she feels herself growing accustomed to servitude and 
its deteriorating influences. 

If you are a woman of this type, you for a long 
time looked at the world from the conventional side 
only: but, this while always believing in and expect- 
ing something better, for your nature was not one to 
be easily moulded. How is it now with you ? What 
did the aforesaid "believing" and "expecting" bring to 



248 ERRA TIC PEOPLE. 

you? Did its promises of "better" see fruition? That 
dear conventional world you know so well, what do 
you think of it now, looked at from several different 
sides ? 

Well — you admit the good purpose it serves, you 
hold it as very wise, very prudent, very useful, but 
— very tiresome. You are not maliciously inclined, 
but you owe it a grudge for cheating you out of 
sundry best things of life. You mean to give it in 
the shape of a protest — long and heart-felt — against 
respectability that bores. To yourself it can give little 
consolation, because the things conventionality took 
from you are not. to be redeemed. Rut perhaps some 
of those now under the portals of that educational 
temple, may take from it courage to resist its usurpa- 
tions when they threaten to engulf happiness. 

Of what advantage to live in a free country if in 
social life we are the veriest slaves that ever breathed? 
Can it be that the greater portion of women in civil- 
ized countries are drawn, they hardly know how, into 
this or that mode of life, rarely, if ever, permitted to 
act upon their convictions or impulses ? If for the 
good of the community it must so be — well, then 
it must — but meanwhile we cannot expect gay spirits 
and joyous countenances in mortals who possess the 
vagabond temperament. 

That respectable word "Ought," — how you hate it! 
Ought! Ought! Ought! All through childhood, all 
through girlhood, it wasNgo dinned into your ears that 
even now in womanhood you cannot rid yourself of 
the sound. Wherever you go, whatever you do or 
do not do, wherever you are, you hear that eternal 
distracting refrain, Ought ! Ought! Ought! 



ERRATIC PEOPLE. 249 

By that talismanic syllable you were goaded into 
various unsuitable positions, into countless unconge- 
nial pursuits. It made you weary of the day long 
before it closed: and to make it worse, the possibility 
of a more natural life continually loomed up while 
the bete-noire "Ought" thrust its ugly visage between 
idea and reality. How you hated it ! 

Yet, while hating — cordially — you obeyed. Can 
you deny it ? Or, can you oust from memory the 
things, the foolish things done while under that domi- 
nation ? Would they not furnish material for one or 
more volumes if you w^ere honest enough and brave 
enough to give your experiences? Perhaps you plead 
your woman-nature — imagined duty, fear of wounding 
others, shrinking from the stigma "eccentricity" — and, 
allowing something for that, there is still self-reproach 
in abundance rankling in your mind. 

Ah, dear erratic woman, you cannot have the ad- 
vantages of respectability without paying a price for 
them ! Look at your toilette alone, what it costs you 
in time, in means, in vexation. You think you are 
moderate, do you? — you plead less extravagance than 
others of your class practise ? And still, is not this 
so-called moderation confessedly the source of infinite 
annoyance to you ? Are you ever so comfortable as 
when in that state which most of your' sex would 
pronounce "not fit to be seen"? Not that you are 
slovenly — the gods forbid that fall ! — but you do like 
to feel your body released from imprisonment, from 
the stiff and heavy uniform custom prescribes for 
women of your position. 

And even the discomfort daily endured from this 
source, is nothing in comparison to the greater injury 



250 



ERRATIC PEOPLE. 



sustained by the giving over of yourself to others' 
notions. Hours and hours, days and days, years and 
years devoted to making happy those who, after all, 
are not made happy. Is this a gratifying record, one 
calculated to bring agreeable sensations to a reflective 
mind ? Candidly, are you not at times so roused to 
indignation by the recollection of your losses that 
you feel yourself capable of making daring escapades, 
of plunging into absolute recklessness, of becoming 
vagabond enough to be deemed a firebrand in con- 
ventional circles ? This not without reason : Nature 
loves to indemnify herself for deprivation or wrong. 

Probably you are not bold enough to act: you have 
too long been under the yoke of slavery for this. But, 
what you do is to imagine the things you might have 
by simply yielding a little here, a little there, simply 
saying "yes" or "no," simply looking or not looking, 
simply listening or shutting your ears. 

By right of your vagabond temperament you delight 
in the unusual, in the extraordinary. You want to 
experiment in matters physical, intellectual, and moral. 
You want to try as many different modes of life as 
may, without absolute injury to self and others, be 
attempted. This not alone for the actual gratification 
to be found, but for positive knowledge of our common 
humanity. 

Scientific explorers possess an unconquerable desire 
to arrive at certain positive conclusions, not only by 
means of others' statements and observations, but 
through their own research. So you feel concern- 
ing life human: you would be sorry to die before pur- 
suing to the extremest limit of possibility inquiries 
which pertain to the race as much as to yourself. 



ERRATIC PEOPLE. 



251 



Investigating through your own thinking faculty, test- 
ing through your own senses, — these are the adven- 
tures to which temperament impels you, into which 
you long to throw yourself without reserve, without 
fear. 

Throughout most of your past you were laboring 
in the dark, with chains around hands and feet: now 
that these are partially loosened, you begin to feel 
the satisfaction of personal activity. Restraints are 
still about you ; difficulties — some from without, more 
from within — are to be overcome; prejudices are to 
be rooted out, traditional opinions to be analyzed, 
temporary standing to be made secondary to absolute 
truth. Truly, much to be done before your vagabond 
temperament becomes reconciled to facts as they are: 

Respectability in excess makes poor-rich people. 
It gives them comfortable homes, but prevents them 
from enjoying them. It furnishes opportunities of 
culture, but leaves no time for profiting by them. It 
provides a wide social circle, but a very narrow area 
of friendship. It shows all the bounties of intellect 
and affection, while laying too heavy an embargo upon 
them to enable them to be touched or tasted. 

Swayed by this power, into what strangely incon- 
sistent ways even so-called sensible people fall ! Striv- 
ing with body and soul after things they do not really 
need; setting aside from expediency or false shame 
that which really gives most nourishment; grasping 
at shadows with an earnestness at once painful and 
ludicrous, — they present a spectacle liable to awaken 
contempt, unless observation be balanced by phi- 
losophy. 



252 ERRATIC PEOPLE. 

"Respectability to support" is the bane of many 
strokes of genius. It is a force none the less effective 
for being quiet, plausible, insidious. It appeals now to 
our sympathy, now to our vanity, now to our pride. 
In one hour it prevents us from deserting by binding our 
faculties with the silken cords of affection; in another, 
by making us feel the thongs of ridicule and neglect. 

Doubtless, there is none too much said against the 
immorality of great cities, — there can be no cessation 
of the war waged in that direction. Nevertheless, 
were all the sacrifices and miseries entailed by " Re- 
spectability to support" portrayed, the array would 
almost balance the other in losses of vitality and 
ability. 

Excursions beyond the borders of Formalism bring 
to the morale what excursions to the country bring to 
the physique. There is a sense of delight in doffing 
the livery of society, in exchanging its set phrases for 
the free expression of thought, in permitting feeling 
to have natural play. We know we must return to 
the post of duty, to the irksome routine, to the close 
walls, but perhaps our enjoyment of the temporary 
freedom is all the more intense for that certainty. 

Our outward affairs may not be at all to our liking, 
but our content is nevertheless so great that every 
hour seems a festival. The relaxation makes our 
dreams seem realities, we revel in the mere conscious- 
ness of existence: even the grumbling of others, and 
similar narrowing influences which in Formalism are 
so depressing, now seem unable to affect us. 

There are hours when we find a wonderful solace in 
a dishabille; when an irregularly served meal sharpens 
the appetite ; when it is a positive rest to the soul to 



ERR A TIC PEOPLE. 253 

have around us nothing neat, nothing straight, nothing 
orderly, — to be permitted to indulge in confusion. 
And this is not incompatible with an innate love of 
order amounting to fastidiousness. 

The seeming paradox may be accounted for by live- 
liness of imagination, which points to too great a 
variety of plans and projects for strength to carry out. 
Something must be left undone, — why not let it be the 
tangible, visible things, rather than forego the piquant 
sensations ensuing from novel situations and pell-mell 
arrangements? 

There is a picturesqueness in disorder and irregu- 
larity. Children and women — pretty ones — never look 
so pretty, so bewitching, as when delivered from the 
thraldom of conventional costume and behavior. We 
should not wish it permanent, this deliverance. We 
recognize that there are things even better than pretti- 
ness and abandon ; but we like and enjoy them as 
occasional phases. 

Proper conduct is desirable, undoubtedly. And we 
must be thankful that it can be so widely enforced as 
it is: but, the sign is not the thing itself Not all the 
men and women who go about so demurely, are so 
demure within themselves. Unruly spirits under calm 
demeanor seem to argue hypocrisy. But what, in 
the name of humanity, are erratic people to do, if 
they may neither express nor repress themselves with- 
out incurring reproach ! Difficult, indeed, to know 
what to do. 

Improper conduct is not to be thought of, — or if, 
merely for experiment, it is verged upon, there is 
a quick revulsion of feeling ending in withdrawal. 
Standing upon that verge, enough was seen and felt 

22* 



254 



ERRATIC PEOPLE. 



to prove that stepping beyond would bring more 
humiliation than satisfaction. Once arrived in vaga- 
bond territory we are quickly claimed by its denizens, 
forced into their associations. What in the distance 
had seemed to us wild, almost romantic, would in 
actual contact be license and vulgarity. No, no, dear 
respectable people of vagabond temperament, do not, 
for your own sakes, cross the frontier of Respectability 
without a pass insuring your safe return. A brief 
sojourn there will, I grant, give you many new ideas, 
many attractive bits of color, diverse groupings and 
character-sketches. But as a resident you would not 
be happy; for that, you must be born and bred on 
the soil. 

This much only can be allowed to those among 
us who at times feel the yoke of civilization bearing 
upon us too heavily, — short excursions, under a trusty 
escort, into vagabond-land. Doing this, we obtain 
needed relaxation without forfeiting our birthright ; 
and we return to our respective respectable places in 
a far more contented frame of mind. If not wholly 
satisfactory, they still offer infinitely better things than 
the land just visited. Another thing to do is to 
plunge heartily into some occupation congenial to 
taste and ability. As soon as men and women show 
the world that they can do something above medioc- 
rity, they are pardoned for being " peculiar," " queer," 
"original." As compensation for sundry vexations,' 
erratic people have the comfort of knowing that they 
are very attractive to their kind ; that the sympathy 
and love thus spontaneously given are of the purest 
quality. 



AUTHORS. 



That we do things is not a proof of our liking to 
do them. In many cases there is a motive behind the 
doing which would surprise those interested merely 
in the thing done. A man may be a good accountant 
without finding any satisfaction in his daily tasks, A 
woman may be an excellent housewife without de- 
riving any pleasure from her round of duties. In fact, 
few people can be said to like the actual work of any 
pursuit. In literary affairs this is especially noticeable, 
perhaps because the mind is so fertile in suggesting 
pleasanter things. 

Authors are of two kinds. First, those born and 
bred to the profession. Whether they admire it or 
not, they have its two great essentials, brain-power 
and skill for its utilization. Second, those born and 
bred out of the profession. They have either fancied 
it or been driven into it; they possess literary tastes 
and ambitions, but neither inherited gifts nor the 
facility of execution which comes of early practice. 

In the last-named there is a period of incipient 
authorship in which the mind wavers between fiction, 
facts, essays, dramas, poems, and what not. There is 
an exuberance which runs into- all manner of fanciful 

255 



256 AUTHORS. 

extravagance. Everything seems probable: nothing 
seems impossible. Whatever is seen, whatever is felt, 
whatever is imagined, points to the one goal. It is as 
if the mind were released from a long imprisonment 
and thrown amid the world's treasures of literature 
with no injunctions of restraint or prohibition. End- 
less enjoyment, marvellous achievements, are the 
dominant sensations. There is a mental jubilee in 
the anticipation of success. What obstacles so seri- 
ous that youth and ignorance cannot demolish with a 
wave of the hand ! For a brief season there is full 
delight in planning, building, coloring. But follow- 
ing this come all the varied difficulties and vexations 
inseparable from the execution of projects. 

A vigorous brain is analogous to a vigorous child. 
It is at times wilful, perverse, aggravating. In the 
very moment when it ought to be doing one thing it 
provokingly insists upon doing another — or wishing 
to — which amounts to the same. Often it is in a 
strangely restless humor, as if a fulness of being 
caused a multiplicity of interests that interfere with 
advancement. Not a day that such a brain does 
not give its trainer much ado to preserve patience 
and forbearance. There are hours when he grows 
weary of his charge, overtaxed with this wandering in 
chaos. Of what use ? he exclaims, to what purpose 
all this grasping of ideas, of observations, of feel- 
ings? Why accumulate this mass of fragmentary 
papers ? 

A brain is like an artist's studio. Suppose we find 
there sketches of every conceivable object, animate or 
inanimate, but not a single finished picture. And sup- 
pose the artist assure us that he devotes every hour 



AUTHORS. 257 

of every day to his art. Yet, if he leave nothing to 
posterity save those germs, our admiration for indica- 
tions of genius would be lost in pity for the weakness 
of purpose so glaringly manifest. An amateur author's 
brain is crowded with events, sentiments, opinions, ob- 
servations ; with suggestions, fragments, beginnings, 
endings ; with everything save the continuous w^ork 
that carries to completion. 

Desultory writing is to him what unrestricted pleas- 
ures are to the youth. To run a course of unbridled 
scribbling cannot lead to a high position in the world 
of Letters. The material for good work may exist in 
the mind ; but the moulding of these into visible form 
calls for an energy and assiduity that are lacking. 
"Waste! unpardonable waste!" cries the man, glancing 
backwards after pleasure has lost its zest. " Waste ! 
reckless waste!" cries the amateur author, as the frag- 
mentary writings of past years come to recollection. 
But another era opens. Experience — that stern, un- 
gracious, but excellent dame — comes to the rescue. 
Through rebuff, through humiliation, she brings the 
youthful scribbler face to face with facts. With eyes 
now opened, shall he spend his energy in bewailing past 
blindness? Shall there be perpetual self-reproach over 
the idle reveries, the imaginary projects, the fruitless 
experiments? That an author should know what kind 
[/ of a brain he has to work with is just as important as 
for an oarsman to know his strength of muscle. If 
a brain be impressionable, easily pleased, easily dis- 
pleased, its owner must needs bend to its exigencies. 
Shall he grow discouraged because of inability to com- 
pose when in a crowd ? Possibly, the very suscepti- 
bility which disables him when there, will, when in 



:/ 



258 AUTHORS. 

solitude, enable him to pursue a train of thought at 
once logical and penetrative. 

Execution is to an untrained brain what manual 
labor is to the fine gentleman. Such a brain thinks, 
but to little purpose ; plans, but never embodies ; as- 
pires, but never escapes from old habits ; chafes under 
conventionalities without strength to break away from 
them. It sees in itself greater ability than things here- 
tofore set down would give ground for supposing pos- 
sible: and this seeing implies neither imagination nor 
self-conceit. It is simply the consciousness of never 
yet having given its qualities fair play. 

Every author has been young once, and this means 
timidity, scruples, and irresolution. Precocious chil- 
dren are never pleasing to a cultured understanding. 
It implies something forced, unnaturally developed, 
perhaps prying and meddlesome. It is the same with 
young authors. We do not wish to see them preco- 
cious, but prefer to see them do foolish things occa- 
sionally. Following the universal law of nature, they 
must necessarily make mistakes, commit imprudences. 
They must throw themselves open to censure, and re- 
ceive plenty of it, before they can expect any recog- 
nition in the career so many have already trodden 
before them. 

What is good writing? may be answered promptly 
by a simple formula any author can frame to suit him- 
self Whatever you write without conscious effort, 
without knowing, when the pages are finished, what 
you have written. Under the spell of the genius 
of authorship your responsibility is lifted from you. 
You write because you cannot help it; and pages 



A UTHORS. 



259 



written thus no critic should frighten you into dis- 
avowing. 

Spontaneous writing is the only kind destined to 
live. Unpremeditated, involuntary, it proves in a few 
flashes what would baffle the most profound scholar's 
life-research. Such writing comes not from duty, from 
need, not from any outward cause whatsoever, but 
from an inner fire which forces itself into expression. 
Changed in form, revised it may be; but the idea, 
the feeling, the passion, — this remains unalterable, 
inexplicable, mysteriously conceived and miraculously 
brought forth. 

Yet, even after discovering what is good, and re- 
solving to seek it, there come countless hindrances to 
its attainment. Interruptions ! What a long array of 
fantastic trivialities thrusts itself with impunity between 
plan and execution ! 

A volunteer author is incessantly contending with 
difficulties which an author trained to the profession 
rarely sees or hears of He is supposed to work, not 
for bread, not for position, but for pure pleasure. " He 
need not do it," says the world, and thereupon feels 
justified in making endless demands upon his time, his 
interests, his sympathies, his patience. Literary tastes 
do not bring about literary work. We may call intel- 
lectual life our natural element; but if, during a long 
period, we live out of that element, we cannot absorb 
its vital properties into our being. A very ample 
mental estate may be in our possession; but it may be 
wholly profitless through bad management. Reason 
tells the author this; but reason cannot fortify him 
against indolent habits, against domestic interferences, 
against social attractions. The entanglements which 



26o A UTHORS. 

beset him are complicated, persistent, discouraging. 
He sees with painful distinctness the conditions of 
authorship, that neither power nor opportunities can 
take form without a creative will. 

Would it be impious to wish for misfortune as a 
means of attaining that end ? Doubtless, it would 
be : and yet, I can conceive of a man so fired with 
enthusiasm in literary ventures that he is tempted to 
that impiety. In every age persecution and suffering 
have served as inspiration to artists, poets, thinkers. 
Deprived of country, home, fortune, friends, the mind 
is driven to its noblest resources as a refuge from out- 
ward ills. From such enforced isolation the world 
receives a picture, a statue, a poem, a system of phi- 
losophy, — a tribute of genius which no mere volition 
ever could have produced. Prosperity is a lullaby to 
genius. Adversity — shock upon shock — rends the 
chains of artificial life and delivers the captive soul. 

'' An author's work is decided by Nature. We cannot 
write the things we would, or take the places which 
look inviting. Our longings for poetry or romance 
may be ardent, but those longings by no means decide 
our fitness for seats in the enchanted halls. Imagina- 
tion plays an important part in our self-judgment. To 
conceive the work we would fain do, is one thing: the 
work itself is another. In many instances the distance 
between them is never overcome. Our plans, our con- 
ceptions — no matter for these ! Let us look at the 
work actually in print. Here there can be no risk, no 
false estimate, no partial opinion, no self-delusion. So 
an author thinks until his work is done, and then how 
ill fitted he finds himself to be his own critic ! How 



AUTHORS. 261 

indeed can he judge of what is or is not valuable, in a 
matter so far removed from volition as that composed 
of thought and feeling ! 

An author's first book ! What a thrilling event for 
himself! how insignificant a one for the world! Ex- 
pressed thought is but a shadow of the real thought 
that lives in the mind. Never, even after life-long 
practice, can the one be more than a reflection of the 
other. What, then, must be the embarrassment and 
the chagrin of a novice in the art ! In vain does he 
dwell with rapture upon the beautiful ideal which 
hovers before his mind's eye ! In vain does he sue, 
plead, and offer up daily sacrifices ! Expression can 
never keep pace with Thought. Hence frequent vex- 
ation, strife, and discouragement. Patient assiduity 
may be called the sole means of assuaging the dis- 
cord between conception and embodiment. 

An artist beholding a wondrous landscape is seized 
with a desire to choose a subject for his pencil. He 
stands awe-struck under the immensity and diversity of 
Nature. Is it not audacious that he should attempt to 
transfer to canvas scenes of such magnitude, such tran- 
scendent loveliness, such mysterious depth? Not one 
feature, not one shade would he willingly lose. Never- 
theless, he is driven to decision by reason. He can 
apprec'iate everything he sees, but he cannot paint 
everything. He is forced to select according to the in- 
tuition which tells what he possibly might accomplish. 

So an author in his first book is puzzled by the 
multitude of subjects for thought presented. Even 
when culture is at the helm of judgment, he is liable 
to many mistakes, many trippings. He is like an in- 



262 A UTHORS. 

telligent but youthful traveller. He has prepared him- 
self carefully for the journey, but his plans refuse to 
develop as he wishes. He knows what ought to be 
done — the places to be visited, the things seen, — but 
finds it difficult to be practical. He knows what he 
admires, what he enjoys, but is continually lured from 
his own personality by his sense of ignorance and in- 
experience. Shall he make a long sojourn in one 
place ? Or, shall he attempt to see only the general 
features of a country, leaving details for another time? 
Shall he examine only what he takes an interest in ? 
Or, shall he be advised by those who have previously 
gone over the same road ? Shall he say openly what 
he thinks, or shall he distrust his first impressions and 
see what ensues from reflection ? So with the inex- 
perienced author. However good his preparations, 
he cannot avoid blunders. His ideas when shaped 
are not as symmetrical as they were in imagination. 
Plis observations do not come forth with that decision 
which marks the veteran writer. His theories, how- 
ever original, instinctively lean upon authority. He 
only half knows his own strength and only half 
uses it, 

A man's first journey teaches him how to travel : 
his second journey will show the results of the first. 
An author's first book teaches him what authorship 
means : his second book ought to be far better than 
the first. 

The eventful day comes — the first book is out! The 
author takes a long breath. He still feels that his 
temerity is unparalleled, but the step cannot be re- 
traced. The bridge that separated the private indi- 



AUTHORS. 263 

vidual from the Public has been crossed. Whatever 
his capacity, preparation, sense or nonsense, he is now 
before the bar of critical judgment. It makes him 
gasp with apprehension. He braces himself with the 
tonic called " Expect the Worst." He recalls all the 
sanguinary reviews which had met his eye, and which 
even when directed towards strangers excited his 
compassion. He remembers the bitter sarcasms of 
critics when an unlucky author ventures on new 
ground, or, when during such attempts he is too 
glowing in feeling to take account of style. He 
glances with terror at the numberless daily papers, 
at the weeklies, at the monthlies, at the quarterlies, 
each one of which may be inimical to the book which 
for the time being is the only one in existence. " If 
every one of those powers condemn," he soliloquizes, 
" people will not read the book. If people do not 
read, neither the good nor the bad will be known : in 
this case, even the adverse criticism I hope to profit 
by will be denied me." 

A young author of sensitive fibre puts forth his 
first work with all the fear and shrinking which an 
actor experiences on his first night. This debijt, — 
how much depends upon it ! If it bring failure — how 
shall he ever summon courage to appear again ! With 
what painful anxiety he awaits the verdict of the audi- 
ence ! The work might have been better, far better 
if — but why moralize now upon past possibilities ! 
All that is over. The book, weak or strong, worthy 
or worthless, has come into the world. What will 
become of it? Will it be courteously treated through 
a friendly feeling for the author? Will it be pro- 
nounced dry, heavy, flavorless, useless ? Will it re- 



264 



A UTHORS. 



celve a commonplace, non-committal reception because 
of its harmless character? Or, will it be condemned 
as fallacious, heretical, injurious, likely to spread evil 
instead of good ? Or, — oh, agonizing thought — will 
it fall still-born from the press ? 

If honest, the author confesses himself anxious to 
hear the world's opinion. True, whatever it is, it can 
make no essential difference to him or to his position. 
His tastes, his pursuits, his ambitions remain the same. 
Whatever the public will or will not say of it, he in- 
dividually is unchanged. If condemned, either openly 
or tacitly, he cannot be surprised. For, although his 
thoughts and convictions- are dear to him — some of 
them having been paid for at a high price — the book, 
in a literary view, he does not himself think much of 
He is no manager, no disciplinarian, no expert, no 
veteran, — he is only an aspirant. 

Author's Elixir ! To drink long and deep of a po- 
tion which exhilarates without inebriating. To feel that 
every drop of the liquid penetrates our inmost springs 
of life, imparting strength where before was weakness, 
resolution where was vacillation, encouragement where 
was self-distrust — this is the effect of an elixir. Praise 
is the Author's Elixir. It comes to the aspirant un- 
expectedly, but is none the less delicious for that. It 
comes from unknown sources, but is all the more 
grateful to him for that. He blesses these benefactors 
for their bounty : they give more than they intended. 
Meaning to be just only, they give him hope, stimulus, 
self-poise. 

Author's Elixir cannot be furnished by personal 
friends. Affection is too partial to weigh judgment. 



A UTHORS. 265 

When a friend gives praise I accept it as a sweet 
tribute, but cannot forget that, reason has no part 
in it. 'My friend loves me : therefore his opinion is 
colored all over with that sentiment. He sees what 
others cannot see. He exaggerates unconsciously, he 
imagines ability, he intensifies reality. In hours of 
difficulty I appeal to him for help, for sympathy, for 
counsel, and all these are generously given. I marvel 
at my own frankness in saying what to any other ear 
would sound puerile, almost contemptibly egotistical. 
But, do I not know the wide charity of the heart I 
speak to? how cheerfully it would accept any pain, 
any burden, for the sake of alleviating my vexations ? 
What this friend does for me is neither lightly es- 
teemed, nor mislaid, but carefully treasured up beyond 
all other gifts. Yet — he cannot give me the Author's 
Elixir. This, if genuine, must come from a source 
where affection, with all its subtle influences, can have 
no part in decision. 

A book from an unknown author is brought forth. 
Critics of every rank, capacity, and grade of culture 
glance at it. They know nothing of the author, of 
his age, his abilities, his training, his motives. They 
read what they find, and from the standpoint of indi- 
viduality more or less tempered with reason, give a 
verdict. The unknown writer, tremblingly alive to 
opinions which are destined to sway his entire future 
career, listens to public criticism as to an oracle. 
Praise thus given is the Elixir which indemnifies for 
past toil, illumines present shadows, vivifies future 
prospects. 

Who can more fitly sing the song of gratitude for 
the Author's Elixir than one who has just quaffed 

23* 



266 A UTHORS. 

the nectar ? Warmed but not heated, braced but not 
elated, made joyous but not intoxicated, his soul is 
attuned to gladness by the precious drops poured 
into it. The doubt, the difficulty, the harassment, the 
pressure of self-mistrust which once enclosed his native 
force like a coat of mail round delicate limbs, have 
been mercifully removed. He feels for the first time 
in his life the full power of mental affinity, of psycho- 
logical faith, of abstract human sympathy. He real- 
izes the glowing fact that he is recognized by men to 
whom he is an entire stranger save by the mind's work. 

Women as authors, — what are their qualifications, 
innate or acquired? 

A supposed conversation between a young lady and 
a gentleman of some experience in authorship, may 
illustrate what seems to me the general sentiment in 
both sexes. The exceptions speak for themselves. 
Woman may and do write books that the world reads. 
W^hen they do, men never withhold justice, never re- 
fuse them the same criticism they would award literary 
work of their own sex. 

Young Lady and Gentleman. 

Young Lady. — I should so like to be an author! 

Gentleman. — A very laudable wish — provided there 
be an aim behind it. 

Young Lady. — Plenty of "aim," I assure you. If 
your laudation is to be in proportion it must be a 
liberal supply. 

Gentleman. — Will you permit me to put a few plain 
questions ? 

Young Lady. — Most willingly. My mind is not at 



AUTHORS. 267 

all clear upon the subject, and I shall welcome every 
ray of light you can give me. 

Gentleman. — Have you a special admiration for 
authors of the fair sex ? 

Young Lady. — Well — upon the whole, No ! I ad- 
mire, of course, those who are celebrated 

Gentleman. — Ah ! I see — you wish to become a cele- 
brated author. 

Young Lady. — It sounds dreadfully vain, put in that 
way ; but, I suppose it is true. In general, it seems to 
me, literary women are unattractive in manner — some- 
what cold, didactic, indifferent to non-literary people. 
I confess, I like to be liked by everybody I meet. I 
should hate to feel that people were repulsed by any- 
thing in my manner, conversation, or occupation. 

Gentleman. — You enjoy woman's prerogative — that 
of being admired and petted — and would dislike to 
give it up. 

Young Lady. — To be frank — you are right. 

Gentleman. — Then, you need not wish to be an 
author. 

Young Lady. — But, my friend, wait a minute — you 
have not heard all. There are other reasons why I 
wish it — one in particular. I need money. When I 
hear of Miss '* So and So" receiving a handsome sum 
for a serial story or a poem, is it not natural to wish I 
could do the same ? 

Gentleman. — Ah ! we are coming to a practical view 
of the question. You have, then, two incentives to 
authorship — ambition and money ? 

Young Lady. — Yes. No one knows how greatly I 
dislike my present occupation — teaching. My intel- 
lect feels as if it had been starved. I long to be 



268 A UTHORS. 

occupied in something which will give it the nourish- 
ment it has lon«- craved. Instead of teachin"; others, 
I myself want to be taught. 

Gentleman. — You do not feel as some women do, 
that teaching is your " vocation" ? 

Young Lady. — No indeed, I do not ! I do it because 
compelled to. It has always been and still is drud- 
gery. I should owe a debt of everlasting gratitude 
to the one who would show me the way out of it. I 
cannot perform manual labor, but almost anything else 
would be preferable to teaching. 

Gentleman. — After this avow^al I begin to see more 
clearly. Have you ever written anything — I mean 
besides letters, or diaries ? 

Young Lady. — I never wrote anything except letters 
— and these very short. I never kept a diary. As for 
anything else, the thought never entered my head 
until a short time ago, when your cousin suggested 
my writing a novel. 

Gentleman. — Did Mary say that ? 

Young Lady. — Yes ; but I took it as half in jest. 
Recently, however, she repeated it, and more earnestly 
still. 

Gentleman. — Did she give any reason for her sug- 
gestion ? 

Young Lady. — Oh, she said she could judge very 
well from my letters as to my ability ; she felt certain 
that I could write a novel. I only laughed in reply 
and felt quite as certain that I could not. 

Gentleman. — Well, suppose you begin a corre- 
spondence with me — merely, you know, to enable 
me to judge of your style. 

Young Lady. — A very cool proposition, certainly ! 



A UTHORS. 



269 



A good joke ! Do you think I could write ten lines 
fluently and naturally if I knew my correspondent were 
going to criticise every idea, thought, and word ? 

Gentleman. — I would promise beforehand to be 
lenient, predisposed in your favor, anxious only to 
discover germs of talent. 

Young Lady. — Then I should gain nothing. You 
would be only a correspondent, after all, and would 
give me no genuine criticism. 

Gentleman. — Suppose, then, that you would look 
upon me as a sort of unprejudiced critic — say a maga- 
zine editor. Write whatever and just as you choose. 
In return you shall have an honest opinion from me. 

Young Lady. — Seriously, do you think me capable 
of becoming an author? 

Gentleman. — Seriously, I know of only two things 
that might prevent you from winning that honor — if 
you think it such. 

Young Lady, — I don't like that last slur, — but, 
shall let it go now, that I may hear about those "two 
things." Pray tell me what they are ? 

Gentleman. — Very willingly. First, your self-dis- 
trust: second, your social tendencies. 

Young Lady. — As regards the first, you are quite 
right. As to the second, I hardly understand your 
drift. 

Gentleman. — Let me explain. You have many warm 
friends who seek your society and whom you seek. 
This fact, however charming in itself, would, I believe, 
greatly interfere with any literary plan you might make. 

Young Lady. — What! you think a woman must 
give up social life if she becomes an author? That 
would indeed be a hard fate ! 



270 AUTHORS. 

Gentleman. — A few women, possibly, might be ex- 
cepted. In general I should say — yes ! Among all 
the women I know, there is scarcely one who would 
have physical strength to perform two parts. 

Young Lady. — Two parts ? 

Gentleman. — Yes : that is, to be a woman of society 
and a literary woman. Or, to be an artist and a domes- 
tic woman. It matters little what pursuits you choose 
to take for comparison. To take more than one part 
and play it well requires genius. Very few, of either 
sex, have this. 

Young Lady. — Poor little me ! My brain is all in a 
whirl. What am I to do ? Where am I to begin ? 
Above all else I want, I really want to be an author. 
Yet, seeing my lamentable deficiencies for the v(5ca- 
tion, no wonder the idea seems too big for me to 
grasp. 

Gentleman. — If you are in earnest, my friend, there 
is nothing in the world to prevent your doing what 
many other young women with no greater natural 
abilities are doing every day. If you are not tired, let 
us look briefly at the leading points in this question. 
First of all, you tell me that you are obliged to do 
work of some kind for a living. 

Young Lady. — Unfortunately — yes. During several 
years I have been teaching with that object — under 
that pressure, I may say. It gives me no pleasure, as 
I said before, and so much fatigue that at the close of 
the day I am unfitted for even the lightest reading. 
If I could find employment which would give my 
mental faculties fair play, I should be the happiest 
woman in the world. 

Gentleman. — Piano! piano! There you are off in 



AUTHORS. 271 

an upper sphere, leaving me down on earth. You 
must keep by me if I am to help you in the least. 

Young Lady. — Of course I will — with the greatest 
pleasure, if you will only show me how. 

Gentleman. — When I say, my dear young lady, I 
am quite certain you can write a good novel, I do not 
mean that you can do it this year, or even next. 

Young Lady. — Dear ! dear ! Two years' work with- 
out remuneration ! How am I to live meanwhile? 

Gentleman. — Moreover, it would be extremely un- 
wise to start with so large a piece of work. You could 
write a short story in much less time than a year, and 
you could begin this at once. 

Young Lady. — I am deeply interested in your re- 
marks, and promise to follow your advice as far as my 
strength permits. 

Gentleman. — I don't recommend a story because I 
think it the best kind of writing, but simply because 
it is more likely to be accepted by any magazine or any 
publisher. Either a story, or an historical sketch, or 
scenes from society, — either of these would give you 
ample scope. Upon the whole, I should think your 
best field would be society. You have seen a great 
variety of people in various classes, your observations 
are unusually keen, your deductions very just, your 
command of language far above the average. 

Young Lady. — Very pleasant to hear all this, but 
you give me more than I deserve. 

Gentleman. — Pardon me — you may have all of these 
advantages and yet — not be able to write well. No 
matter how great your abilities, they will avail you 
nothing without a great deal of practice. Writing is 
an art, and requires enthusiastic devotion. 



272 



A UTHORS. 



Young Lady. — Ah ! I knew it would be beyond my 
powers. As soon as you mention " art " and " years of 
study" I feel my courage giving way. I should never 
be able to do it, I am sure. 

Gentleman. — As you know, many others have done 
and are doing this thing. 

Young Lady. — But I am not strong ; I could not 
bear the continued application. 

Gentleman. — I would upon no account persuade you 
to try, my friend. In my opinion, there are many 
things you are much better fitted for. For the pres- 
ent, I would advise you to remain in the path already 
chosen — in that of teaching. 

Was there ever a woman born into the Republic of 
Letters ? I think not. True, her parents, her friends, 
may be literary, and give her largely of their tastes, 
greatly assist her culture. But, does a young girl, 
however brilliant in mind, ever dream of preparing 
for authorship? I think not. And there are very 
good, very satisfactory reasons for her not so dream- 
ing — for her dreaming other things. 

Woman prefers human hearts to human praises. 
Were all that the world could give of admiration, of 
fame, of renown, placed in the balance against hearts, 
there would be no wavering as to choice. 

Yet some women do become authors, just as some 
others come into positions they did not choose and 
do not like. Teachers, actresses, dancers, singers, 
saleswomen, working-women, — these, probably, have 
no more fondness for their duties than authors have. 

But voluntary authorship, — surely this implies pleas- 
ure in the work ! Not entirely : only so far as doing a 



A UTHORS. 



273 



thing that seems best for the occasion, may " volun- 
tary" be so interpreted. Women may have everything 
that means and social life offer, without finding em- 
ployment enough for their energies. As a result we 
see benevolent societies, religious enthusiasts, philan- 
thropists, reformers, musicians, artists, authors. Gen- 
eralities are apt to be tedious. Personalities bring 
us nearer to the question at hand. So, from among 
volunteer authors en masse, I select one whose gen- 
eral features may give an idea of her class. Of no 
consequence where she lives, how she looks, what 
her antecedents. Enough to know that she writes, 
— and with an object. If it be not perceptible, so 
much the worse for her, — it cannot be labelled. 
Some people get into mischief through sheer ennui. 
This woman would certainly have done so if she had 
not fallen into authorship. What if her writings are 
not widely read, or read only to be forgotten ! The 
occupation is of itself the desired end : she herself is 
diverted and instructed if the world is not. 

Her brain is not one of great calibre, and has had 
no training whatsoever. It is difficult to manage. It 
is active, but capricious ; it is a roving brain, a brain 
of strong " Bohemian" tendencies. It grows restless 
under regularity, it wilts under formality, it withers 
under training. It takes no interest in general infor- 
mation. It eschews statistics, it has no intimacy with 
facts ; it avoids descriptions ; it holds in slight esteem 
most things which other brains greatly prize. So far 
does this go that the mere presence of an orderly 
practical brain acts upon hers like a blight. Even to 
hear of the discipline to which other brains are sub- 
jected affects her painfully. She thinks of it as a spe- 

24 



274 



A UTHORS. 



cies of self-torture similar to that practised by certain 
tribes of Indians to show their fortitude under suffer- 
ing. Her brain is sybaritic, refusing either to work 
or to play, save under its own conditions. A person 
in the room, a noise in the street, a bird singing; the 
recollection of an engagement, somebody to meet, or 
something to get ; the thought of a friend, of an enemy, 
— either of these is enough to mar its action. It must 
have nothing mechanical to do — and a long course of 
it — before it can think to any purpose. 

Its imaginative faculty started, it will not suffer in- 
terruption. For the time being its owner is metamor- 
phosed. She is by turns young, middle-aged, old, a 
worldling, a recluse, a saint, a sinner, — she is any con- 
ceivable character in any conceivable age or sphere, 
acting in any conceivable condition or event. She can 
throw herself into the personality of the best or the 
worst that ever lived. Her pages speak of heresies, 
of passions, of temptations, of guilt, of infinite con- 
tingencies which may not in reality have swayed her, 
but which she knows imaginatively. Any phase of 
hate, intemperance, or crime can be described as if 
seen, known, and felt. It is a power that works spite 
of herself, but it works only in spells. The glow 
over, she can do nothing. 

Anti-authorship, for this woman, means varied un- 
pleasant experiences from without and from within. 
She hears of clever, managing, practical women who 
"make good wives and mothers," "maintain a wide 
social circle," attend faithfully to "religious duties," 
and — write books besides! She stands bewildered 
before so long a list of virtues; and, upon recovering 



A UTHORS. 



275 



herself, grumbles at Nature's unfairness. Why give 
so much to one kind of women, so little to another 
kind ? For, apparently, many women find it arduous 
enough to be the " good wife and mother" without 
anything else. Others consume all their strength in 
society's behalf Others, again, give to religious du- 
ties the choicest hours of existence, leaving no vitality 
for other duties. But, to hear of women who can 
perform all of these functions satisfactorily, seems 
well-nigh incredible. 

Yet, people tell her of it as a positive fact. Her 
only response is : ** Of course, it must be so ; but we 
cannot all do the same things in the same way." 
Anti-authorship, then, for this non-remarkable woman, 
means sundry annoyances and difficulties. Intellectual 
importunity drives her to writing, but the thought of 
publication means something very different from prior 
scribbling for her own pleasure. The momentous 
questions : How ? What form ? What plan ? Ideas 
and sentiments cannot be thrown pell-mell into the 
treasury of Literature. They must be put- into an in- 
dividual shape, one that will bear the stamp of their 
progenitor. Seeking to answer these questions she 
enters upon the experimental stage. While there she 
meets with many curious adventures and learns from 
them many instructive lessons. 

As a result, there comes — no wonderful book to 
startle the world into admiration — nothing of the kind. 
There come only several years of absolute quiescence 
as regards the Public. She is learning the art of ex- 
pression : her brain is growing, ripening. Its activity 
is incessant, intense, embarrassing even, but she has an 
intuition that it means something. For the present 



276 ^ UTHORS. 

her way is the narrow, obscure one of Appb'cation. 
What has heretofore been deplored as ill-regulated, as 
unwarranted ambition, as instability, may, after all, be 
the throes of a mind struggling into birth. The intel- 
lect seems at times to be taken out of itself, in that 
state enabled to criticise, analyze its own disjointed 
efforts as if they were those of an eager, self-compla- 
cent, ignorant child. 

Introspective glances show us what we are and 
where we are. If they reveal conditions neither judg- 
ment nor feeling sanction, the more speedily we seek 
a remedy the better. 

The embryo author hears herself called "studious," 
** learned ;" hears friendly voices rallying her about 
" those books" she must be writing. Probably, her 
own profound sense of ignorance awakens a smile at 
the first words : but the second remark throws her 
into a just appreciation of her indolent musing or 
frivolous pursuits. Hours of triviality greatly out- 
numbering hours of study ; strong resolves overbal- 
anced by weak compliances; an ignoble position made 
unbearable by a consciousness of desiring a noble 
one; — such are some of the facts made clear by 
introspection. 

She writes then, but sees nothing in her attempts 
that can in the least minister to her vanity or egotism. 
Intellect is a regal gift. Its responsibilities are liter- 
ary tastes, eagerness, enthusiasm. Its results should 
be a legacy to the world in the shape of productions. 
But, if concentration of mental forces be difficult for a 
man, it is far more so for a woman. Craving knowl- 
edge, capable of grasping, yet impetuous in all things. 



AUTHORS. 277 

she finds the discipline requisite for authorship ex- 
tremely wearisome. The world is so full of attrac- 
tions, she herself feels capable of partaking of so many 
of them, that the seclusion of a study soon becomes 
distasteful. 

She writes — yes, she writes a great deal — but, what 
of that? To write tales, romances, dramas, essays, or 
poems, does not mean that the world wants them. 
She herself looks coldly at them when finished, won- 
dering how she ever came to spend so much time over 
so meagre a reality. Then come days of absolute 
non-literary humor, days when she feels unconscious 
of having ever written a page. What, she cries, are 
then my long-cherished aims but a miserable delusion! 
No thoughts, no imagination, no ambition, no desire 
even to read! The literary career once so sanguinely 
anticipated assumes a shadowy aspect. Vexation over 
lack of executive ability induces suspicions of mental 
inanity. She has been told that women are unfitted 
for literary life — and is half inclined to believe it. 

But there come other days, days bright with en- 
couragement, hope, ardor. Intellectual apprentice- 
ship finally yields the secret of mastering the intel- 
lect. Not that she is a genius, but such ability as she 
has is gradually developed. Finally, when her first 
book appears she passes through all the excitement — 
only much intensified — that the volunteer of the other 
sex experiences. She, too, expects the worst, fortifies 
herself upon it. And when something better than 
that, better far than her most daring flight of hope 
had anticipated, she, too, quaffs the Author's Elixir. 
She is not surprised when critics speak of her writings 
as " very good," " almost remarkable," etc., — " for a 

24* 



278 



A UTHORS. 



woman." No — she is not surprised, not indignant at 
this. She knows a Httle about women, and believes 
there are some things they cannot do quite as easily 
or quite as well as men. Writing books, for instance, 
she thinks must be easier for men to do. She grants 
that there are a few remarkable women who do remark- 
able things with wonderful facility. But, she gives her 
judgment as formed from other women, among whom 
she herself belongs. Such women, as she well knows, 
are not educated to be anything in particular except 
"young ladies," so that, when later they desire to do 
or to be something more, they find it a little difficult. 
It is not merely her want of training that makes 
literary work irksome: it is its incompatibility with 
domestic life. Under no conditions does the time 
come when a woman having family ties, can throw 
herself into literary work with her mind free enough 
to work its will. Spite of literary tastes, aims, and 
ambitions, these are only secondary to her woman- 
nature, w^iich seeks domesticity under almost any 
shape, at almost any cost. However great her literary 
ardor at the beginning of an undertaking, it abates as 
she progresses. In her own words, she grows " tired 
and restless." If it were not for the money she needs, 
or for the shame at her idleness, or for the troublesome 
thoughts resulting from mental activity and luxury 
combined, I believe a woman would rarely be found 
in the ranks of authorship. 



OUR KNIGHTS. 



Knighthood is to-day as vital a force in society as 
of old. There is that in our common nature which 
admires valor, skill, power. In that admiration we 
find the origin of warriors, of feudal lords, of knights, 
of chiefs, of kings. The title is but the sign of the 
thing itself Yet, being that, it implies advantage and 
distinction. Whether our country be a republic, a 
monarchy, or an empire, matters little as to knight- 
hood : the principle and its demonstration, here is the 
point of interest. 

Glancing at our own history during the past cen- 
tury, we find as honorable a list of individual knights 
as any other nation whatsoever, in the same period 
and under the same conditions, could furnish. What 
more can we ask? what more expect? Take the 
Order of Government. If it fail, as an organization, 
to meet the anticipations of optimists or idealists, the 
fault lies in their vision. It is one-sided : it expects 
roses out of thistles, honesty out of knavery, reason 
out of unreason. The Order is not a perfect one 
simply because its knights are not perfect men. Can 
we, do we realize this sufficiently ? If so, we could 
not, it seems to me, allow ourselves to express so 

279 



28o OUR KNIGHTS. 

much impatience and so much indignation at the 
workinsfs of an Order which, after all, is much better 
than many others men live under. Not that we are 
to sit passive under injustice, show servility under 
oppression, cowardice under outrage. We are to the 
utmost of our ability to resist and counteract those 
conditions : but, doing so, we are not to ignore the 
distinction between principles and men. 

If we say querulously. The Order of Government 
is not respected because its knights are deficient in 
statesmanship, in culture, in dignity, in patriotism, — 
we may speak truth, but without in the least helping 
the matter. If the Order is ever to have knights with 
those requisites, why are there none now being trained 
for it? Can diplomacy have skilful workmen unless 
they are drilled to the service? If we think so 
fatuously, surely we deserve nothing better than we 
have — mainly the wrong men in the wrong places. 
The Order of Government does not want partisans, 
soldiers, theologians, scholars, or merchants as leaders : 
it wants statesmen. How these are made, how they 
are to be utilized, how they are to be honored, — upon 
these points history gives all facts and inferences in 
strictly logical sequence to whomsoever will take the 
trouble to read them. 

From even cursory glances at such records it is dis- 
covered that statesmanship is as much a life-study as 
art, or science, or philosophy. Can we conceive of 
anything more absurd than to remove an artist from 
his studio to a seat in Congress? a merchant from his 
counting-house to a scientific chair? or, to put a sailor 
into the army? a mechanic in a literary field? Yet, 
in the above Order similar absurdities are not uncom- 



OUR KNIGHTS. 281 

mon. Training the best brains and best characters 
from among the youth of the repubhc for statesman- 
ship seems, thus far, wholly foreign to the national 
mind. Clear intellects and cultured ones are not 
lacking, but, for some reason there seems no honor 
attached to the devotion of these powers to the gov- 
ernment. There is a slur upon titles which should 
represent genuine nobility; a stigma upon offices 
which the highest grade of ability should deem it 
laudable to attain. 

If in the most menial household service we think it 
advisable to have skilled hands, assuredly the same 
principle must apply with equal force to important 
posts in the government. The ablest men in fitting 
places is the sole security of good work. In manu- 
factures, in science, in literature, in every kind of in- 
dustry and art, this is the simple rule underlying 
success. If in all other things, why not in govern- 
ment? Impossible, say some, to have statesmen and 
diplomatists in a country where position and tenure 
depend upon voters. Why be at the labor of training 
when there is no permanent situation to be trained 
for? It is not easy to see how this can be refuted. 

Yet, if the nation thrive, if it be content, why ask 
for any change in the Order of Government ? It is 
as it is, it will be so as long as it lasts, nothing better 
need be anticipated. The knights, both in embryo 
and in maturity, are here with us, as able, as spirited, 
as loyal, as in any other age or country. But, if they 
are not needed they will not be educated for the ser- 
vice. If there are no disciplined men, other kinds 
must be put into places for which they have no single 
qualification. How they perform their functions all 



282 OUR KNIGHTS. 

the world can see, while nobody, apparently, is in 
fault. 

Yet, spite of this insuperable obstacle to power and 
greatness as a nation, the republic has many valuable 
records for posterity. The multitude has been like 
the multitude of any other country, ignorant, fickle, 
unruly. But individuals, the men of high tone, of 
profound intellect, of noble patriotism, who toiled in 
its behalf, they have put it where it stands to-day. 
Such men are the heroes we love to worship. Living 
or dead, known or unknown personally, we bow before 
their nobility, their self-sacrifice, their achievements. 
Whether statesmen, whether philanthropists, whether 
soldiers, whether sailors, whether citizens, we care not. 
We ask only to see their character-diploma : if this 
certify of probity, of fidelity, of honorable ambition, 
we are satisfied to give our trust and admiration. 

To have faith in a government — whatever its form — 
means to have faith in individual men. Where, in past 
or present, is there a country containing numbers of 
patriots, of statesmen, of benefactors in any sphere? 
Characters representing greatness or goodness stand 
out in so bold a relief on a nation's history that they 
seem to personate the whole nation. But, to be just, 
we cannot forget how few are these great or good men. 
Nor, while duly grateful for the benefits of a republic, 
ought we to lose sight of its disadvantages. 

No form of government is wholly desirable either 
in principles or in results. If we have a great deal 
of freedom we must needs take with it a great deal 
of license. In no stage of civilization do we find a 
multitude of men who are enlightened, who are self- 
controlled, but precisely the reverse. A vast array of 



OUR KNIGHTS. 283 

voters means a vast amount of ignorance, of partisan- 
ship, of selfishness. Exemption from the ceremonial 
and etiquette of a court necessitates the crudity and 
miscellaneous confusion of a democratic seat of gov- 
ernment. If we see numerous objectionable features 
in an aristocracy, we may be well assured that foreign 
eyes see just as long a list of undesirable qualities in 
our republic. In truth, the two sides of this question 
so ably discussed by philosophers of every age, leave 
unprejudiced minds very much in doubt as to supe- 
riority on either side. The simple argument so often 
used with a child when embarrassed in the choice of 
something desired — " My dear, if you take this, you 
cannot have that: it must be one or the other" — seems 
equally applicable to nations. 

If we have a republic, if we value it, if we deem 
it best for the general welfare, let us by all means 
cling to it with unflinching tenacity. But doing so, 
surely it is unpardonable folly to complain about its 
weak places, its ugly blots. The essential point to 
decide — every individual mind for itself — is this : Is 
not a republic, with all its defects and its tumult, yet 
the best form of government known ? If the response 
come in the affirmative, then let us be proud of it, and 
show it by being content — or forbearing. 

The Order of Religion exists in our country under 
peculiarly fortunate circumstances. It has everything 
that wealth, influence, enthusiasm, and fostering care 
can furnish. It has organization, thoroughly drilled 
rulers, countless submissive subjects, and all the power 
accruing from those facts. As an Order it exhibits the 
highest offices filled by the best-disciplined knights. 



284 OUR KNIGHTS. 

Consequently, there Is every incentive to young men 
of devotional minds to prepare themselves for the 
Order, to forego every other claim or advantage in its 
behalf. Yet, this state of things has not come to pass 
without many disputes, controversies, and revolutions. 
The leaders in this Order whose names are immor- 
talized have as tumultuous a history-record as any 
other knights in any other cause. In its ranks, too, 
are to be found all the contrarieties and inconsistencies 
seen in other human institutions. 

Men are none the less men because they belong to 
this Order, or because they are trained for it and ex- 
pect to spend their lives in it. Intellect, physique, 
conscience, these evince their special attributes in 
every undertaking, under every form of zeal, through- 
out every phase of activity or passivity. Conscience 
is the watchword of the three divisions of the Order — 
Theology, Morality, Humanity — but, oddly enough, it 
brings forth results at once diverse and conflicting. 

Theology insists upon a name, a shape, a creed, 
upon times, places, and ceremonies. It exacts obe- 
dience to its rules, punishes delinquents with both 
present stripes and threats of more in the future. It 
makes profession of intellect for itself, but refuses 
absolutely to allow its adherents to form any per- 
sonal opinions. It is an Autocrat in the widest sense, 
holding itself answerable to no other earthly power. 
Whoever yields prompt obedience to its commands 
receives smiles, rewards, posts of honor. Whoever 
questions its authority must bend under its displeas- 
ure, accept the sentence it decrees, suffer every grade 
of penalty between social ostracism and eternal dam- 
nation. Knights of Theology, then, upon taking the 



OUR KNIGHTS, 



285 



vows of their Order, bind themselves to obey im- 
plicitly, to ignore every personal conviction, to disre- 
gard every natural feeling, to act only in accord with 
the chosen standard. With few exceptions they are 
self-denying, indefatigable workers, devoted body and 
soul to the Autocrat whose uniform they wear. 

Their history is contained in many thousands of 
volumes, ranging from rigid catechisms for infant 
minds to minute descriptions of future worlds which 
the souls of men are to inhabit. Learning, devotion, 
sanctity, and asceticism occupy one shelf, while con- 
troversy, bigotry, persecution, and inhumanity fill 
another. Theology, like other human organizations, 
accomplishes much good through much evil. Its two 
essentially noble results are, a strong governing hand 
over the masses, and a driving of the thinking {^\f^ 
into spiritual emancipation. Acknowledging this, who 
would wish the power of theology weakened ! 

Man seems to be so constituted that he requires 
striking contrasts to bring him into a philosophical 
condition. And, progressive as he is, it is still well to 
remember that no stage can be unduly hurried. This 
principle assists the mind to solve that ever-perplexing 
question. How can men of fine intellectual abilities 
bring themselves to teach doctrines at once puer- 
ile and fallacious? We assume, naturally, that they 
themselves do not, cannot believe them ; but that they 
deem them the strongest mental nourishment inferior 
beings can receive. Only by taking this view can we 
grow reconciled to many of the extraordinary absurd- 
ities practised in some forms of religion. We may 
even bring ourselves to respect a teacher of bigotry, if 
we believe him sincere in his endeavors to save men 

2^ 



286 'OUR KNIGHTS. 

and women from working worse mischief in society 
than they otherwise would. 

Knights of Morality are higher in rank than those 
of Theology. A man of that Order asks of other men 
no questions as to name, place, and creed : he asks 
only for principles and deeds. They may or may not 
be regular attendants at church, mosque, or temple. 
Religious instruction is to the conscience what general 
literature is to the intellect. The child needs the best 
teachers of both branches. But childhood and youth 
run their course in religion no less than in intellect. 
In manhood many childish beliefs disappear, to be re- 
placed by other and more vigorous convictions. Dare 
a man murmur, need he despond, because what once 
yielded benefit or rapture no longer produces the same 
effect? What if he hear certain voices among the 
crowd hoarsely shrieking, "Irreligion, Atheism, Infi- 
delity !" They mean it to express opprobrium, this 
he knows and feels. For, although honest in convic- 
tion, he is not insensible to ill-will, or to the privations 
implied by popular censure. 

No — a man who feels in himself the mystery of 
growth, dare not murmur, need not despond. If manly, 
he cannot but rejoice in his augmented virility. His 
sole anxiety is how best to use the gift in his posses- 
sion. If he see that superstition and cant are rife, in- 
sidiously undermining the best attributes of progress, 
he deems it unknightly to remain mute and inert. If 
he cannot do much towards lifting the load of igno- 
rance from human shoulders, he can do something. 
Reason is slow in developing. Apart from its native 
calibre there are multitudes of crippling agencies act- 



OVR KNIGHTS. 



287 



ively working to confound its deductions. Customs, 
traditions, worldly interests, family ties, friendships, — 
these and other influences act upon even the strongest 
minds. 

Moralists, then, grow slowly — often painfully — into 
their opinions, into their independence. The bold 
utterance from their lips may have cost them many 
a siege of doubt, many pangs of self-reproach, many 
precious hours of social intercourse. No man out- 
grows ignorance without oft-repeated mortifications 
and bitter experiences. Religious conformity, blindly 
given, is the form of ignorance the moralist himself 
seeks to escape from, and to help others in the same 
endeavor. 

Knights of Humanity are several grades higher in 
rank than those of Morality. They are men emanci- 
pated from ignorance, from custom, from superstition, 
from fear. They are in themselves and in their actions 
the incarnation of religion, as conceived by the noblest 
of the world's prophets and martyrs. They are moved 
with compassion, they are thrilled with tenderness, they 
burn with indignation. In their knightly duties and 
undertakings they know no distinction of country, of 
class, of endowment. All men, all women, all chil- 
dren, have a claim upon their sympathies, upon their 
time, upon their labor. They estimate the privileges 
of intellect, of morality, of prosperity, at their just 
value, but do not, therefore, reproach non-privileged 
mortals with their poverty. 

They believe with Mazzini that "the religious idea 
exists in and for humanity, for humanity alone knows 
the aim towards which it is advancing. Humanity 



288 OUR KNIGHTS. 

alone hears the voice bidding it pursue that aim, and 
is the sole possessor of the secret that unites its various 
races. Religion in its own essence, is one eternal and 
immutable as God himself, but in its external form and 
development, it is governed by the law of time, which 
is the law of mankind." 

Knights of Humanity take views of life broad 
enough to include not only people in their greatness 
and in their littleness, but all shades of ability and 
inability, of strength and weakness, of beauty and ugli- 
ness. Human nature, to their understanding, is not a 
vague subject, but one more clearly defined than any 
system of theology or any theory of government. 

Enlightenment of the race through every avenue 
of intellect, heart, and conscience is the sole creed of 
their order. Rank and culture are not vilified, but 
made to yield their quota towards the one grand end^ — 
development. Poverty and degradation are regarded 
as inevitable in the general scheme, but as capable 
of amelioration, as serviceable even in arousing men 
to earnest resistance against all the petty indulgences 
which lead to misery. 

Chivalry assumes various forms. In one epoch it 
is war. At this sound legions spring into activity 
ready to sacrifice love and life for an idea. Men of 
intellect and experience fall into their natural places 
as leaders, others fall into theirs as followers, while 
both are animated by the same stimulus. Injustice 
and suffering never appeal in vain to nobility of char- 
acter. It rises above wealth, drives out sybaritism, sets 
aside commerce, postpones science, drops mechanism, 
and plunges body and soul into the work of redress. 



OUR KNIGHTS. 



289 



Is there ever a war where any class or any occupa- 
tion is unrepresented ? For the time being men are 
fired with chivalry under the name of patriotism. 
Docs it import on which side they contend, for which 
motive or idea? None whatever as regards chivalry. 
Its spirit is the same in both belligerents, its demon- 
strations similar, always in accord with physique and 
morale. Nor is it on the battle-field alone that 
knightJiood may be shown. All men cannot fight, 
but all men can be true knights : all can put the best 
of themselves into the cause they have faith in. True, 
the men who are directly in the breach, fronting death 
or mutilation, receive popular sympathy and enthu- 
siasm. And justly so. The popular mind must in- 
evitably be touched by external means; it is incapable 
of any other susceptibility. Its heroes are soldiers, 
sailors, the bold men of action, the adventurous spirits 
of the day. But the thinking mind discerns patriot- 
ism no less in the physician, in the priest, in the sci- 
entist, in the artisan, in all the grades and pursuits of 
civil life. 

As for woman — she shrinks from war with horror. 
The excitement, the new flood of life it opens to men, 
the dream of glory, these are nothing to her. She 
sees only the pain of separation from father, son, lover; 
the agony of suspense during warfare; the dire deso- 
lation of the domestic hearth ; the universal misery 
spreading over the land. And yet, notwithstanding 
these ordeals, woman recognizes and does obeisance 
to knighthood. This it is that rouses her to the sacri- 
fice of her affections, to active participation in war 
exigencies, to saintly resignation to its bereavements. 
Without noble women there could be no inspiration 

25^ 



290 OUR KNIGHTS. 

to knightliness : without true knights there could be 
no loving, tender women. 

Wars have not ceased because we are in the nine- 
teenth century: nor is there reason for believing that 
there ever will be an epoch when absolute peace will 
reign. It is incompatible with the human race. But, 
war to-day, however harrowing, is not the protracted 
interminable horror of former ages. Modern civiliza- 
tion enables the mightiest and best-disciplined army 
to decide the question at issue with a sweeping but 
swift destruction. This amelioration enables both 
nations to resume their normal peaceful occupations 
while profiting from the awful lessons of their quarrel. 

Our knights of to-day then, however valiant in 
spirit, have far less to do as warriors than as citizens. 
Here it is, mainly, that we are to judge of their gal- 
lantry, their honor, their prowess. The Great Order of 
Social Life is divided and subdivided into countless 
branches. Diplomacy, Theology, Science, Art, Com- 
merce, Literature, Mechanism, all these throw out 
their inducements to knights seeking name and for- 
tune. What they achieve, how they achieve, and what 
results from achievement, — these have a deep interest 
for the women who in thought and feeling are anx- 
iously following their career. 

Chivalry in society ranges from the simple act of 
courtesy to the brave defence of life and honor. To 
define it accurately would be impossible. It is not 
manner. That may be unexceptionable, while impa- 
tience or unkindness is detected underneath. It is 
not language. That may be faultless in accent and 
rhetoric, while leaving us coldly indifferent. It is not 



OUR KNIGHTS. 29 1 

actions. These may be replete with libcraHty and 
painstaking, while yet causing in us only an unpleas- 
ant sense of obligation. No — it is not these attributes 
alone. But, when they proceed from innate respect 
for woman, when they evince appreciation and pro- 
tection clothed in manly gentleness, then they exem- 
plify that world-recognized principle. 

Chivalry is the source of man's power over woman. 
Personal beauty, wealth, renown, — these have indeed 
great attractions for some women. But upon the 
noblest types, those of high spirit and warm hearts, 
they fail utterly in competition with valor, refine- 
ment, and devotion. All women have their favorite 
knights selected and graciously treated according to 
usages of the age. A woman of the world wishes her 
knight to bear the banner of wealth, or of distinction. 
She incites, she assists, she sacrifices, all in one -direc- 
tion : her mind, feelings, and wishes are made subser- 
vient to that single aim. And where there is sincerity 
and honest toil there can be no censure. We may 
not admire the motive animating the individual, but 
we see the benefits accruing from it to the world at 
large. So with women of other characteristics ; every 
one selects the knight who best accords with her 
intellect and heart. Whether they have courage to 
act upon preference hangs upon many other contin- 
gencies. 

Indeed, here as elsewhere, choice may mean sev- 
eral things. The men we admire and like — ah ! here 
there is no hesitation, no difficulty of interpretation. 
And whatever we do or say, whatever we take or re- 
fuse, that liking and that admiration remain the same 
throughout life. Every woman, in brief, has her idea • 



292 OUR KNIGHTS. 

of manhood to which, amid all the changes incident 
to years and circumstances, she remains faithful. 

Unhappily, women, like men, marry from a variety 
of motives irrespective of personal inclination. Society 
exacts matrimonial alliances for the sake of wealth, 
ambition, expediency. From royal circles down to 
the working-classes the principle is the same. Under 
its pressure women but too often drive back feeling, 
and keep it in abeyance as best they can. But, mar- 
ried or not, a woman never loses the appreciation of 
chivalry. Whether it come from relative, from friend, 
from acquaintance, from stranger, it rarely, fails to 
ingratiate the donor in her regard. He may have 
blemishes of person, defects of temper, faults of manner, 
may even commit grave errors without forfeiting her 
interest. This, from woman to man. Individual cases 
present the diverse grades of honor and affection en- 
suing from temperament and culture. 

" Nothing," says Hume, " can proceed less from 
affectation than the passion of gallantry. It is natural 
in the highest degree. Art and education, in the most 
elegant courts, make no more alteration on it than on 
all the other laudable passions. They only turn the 
mind more towards it ; they refine it ; they polish it ; 
and give it a proper grace and expression. . . . As 
nature has given man the superiority above woman, 
by endowing him with greater strength both of mind 
and body, it is his part to alleviate that superiority as 
much as possible by the generosity of his behavior, 
and by a studied deference and complaisance for all 
her inclinations and opinions." 

Men find their natural gallantry developed in pro- 



OUR K NIGHTS. 



293 



portion to the appreciative women they meet. A 
rustic maiden, however charming in her freshness, 
would be utterly insensible to the delicate homage 
language might convey to a woman of the world. 
Gallantry then quickly invents modes of pleasing 
both the unsophisticated ear and the highly-cultured 
one. Yet, to admit that a passion is natural, does not 
mean that it is natural to everybody. A man may 
possess sterling traits or a brilliant intellect, while 
wholly deficient in gallantry. *' What shall I talk 
about to those women ? We have nothing in com- 
mon. I_ cannot assume an interest in their affairs, 
and they have none in mine." So he responds when 
reproached with being " so indifferent, so cold in 
manner." Perhaps he calls his want of gallantry 
" honesty," " sincerity," not without a certain con- 
sciousness of superiority over other men, who say 
" things they do not mean, merely to please feminine 
ears." But here is the point where discrimination 
and refinement are available. 

Women like pleasing compliments, but they are re- 
pulsed by coarse flattery. A plain woman knows every 
lack, every blemish in her own person as well as if it 
belonged to another. Her esthetic perceptions criti- 
cise it with the same sense of dissatisfaction. If, then, 
a man tell her that she is very beautiful, she resents 
it. It is an insult both to her understanding and to 
her sensibilities. But, if he show her by manner or 
speech that* he admires the womanhood in her, that 
her thoughts and feelings are attractive to his mental 
nature, she is reconciled to her want of personal 
charms. 

No, no — dear honored men of ''sterling traits" or 



294 OUR KNIGHTS. 

"brilliant intellect," do not think wc can be satisfied 
with those things alone ! We admire them, I grant; but 
our admiration is much stronger, much warmer, when 
we find gallantry besides. If you have not this quali- 
fication I am sorry for you, — it is not your fault. 
Doubtless, you often think women very weak, rather 
silly even, because they like to hear pretty speeches, 
and like to be waited upon and taken care of in count- 
less wholly needless ways. But what seems folly to 
you may be something very different to some other 
men — and to nearly all women. 

Oriental women lose self-respect if they are not 
guarded with strictness befitting their rank. The 
more they are watched, the more they feel their worth 
and influence. Yet, this is not to say that all Oriental 
women who feel thus are beautiful. On the contrary, 
some very plain ones are much beloved, and wield 
great power over their lords. Upon the same prin- 
ciple — woman-nature it must be — women of a different 
civilization lay claim to chivalrous treatment. They 
do not want to be locked in, guarded and restricted, 
surrounded by slaves or spies. But they need proofs, 
forcible and oft-repeated ones, that their individuality 
is something to be sued for, to be contended for, and 
when won, to be jealously preserved. 

Indeed, if you are not naturally gallant it is a pity, 
for you lose a great deal — and so do we. Still, much 
can be done by culture if you feel heartily interested 
in the thing to be acquired. If you do not so feel, 
if you see no need for being other than you are, 
your appeal to art will be useless. Art does imitate 
Nature sometimes very successfully. In acting, for 
instance, the illusion may be so perfect as to thrill 



OUR KNIGHTS. 295 

us with delight or transfix us with horror. Every 
faculty of the mind and heart may in turn be excited 
or soothed at the actor's pleasure. And the same 
kind of art is manifested by the orator. He sways 
his audience with so potent a magic that they forget 
everything save the facts and the imagery his will 
sets forth in language. So with- the pen. Art en- 
ables it to give forth pages glowing with Nature's 
colors, palpitating with her innate forces. Intellect, 
Heart, Soul — the omnipotent trinity which all the 
world worships — illumine the written words at the 
command of Art. But there can be no Art — no imi- 
tation of Nature — without imagination, that which 
transports the self out of itself 

So in gallantry. Our knights may be deficient in 
the quality we so like simply through lack of imagina- 
tion. In this case a man might have mental ability 
and kind feelings, while wholly unable to seize a 
situation, anticipate its desire or need. Having no 
power of adaptation, he cannot give pleasure even 
when animated by the wish. He feels his inadequacy 
to meet his companion's wants, while the mode of 
overcoming it remains unsuspected. He may see the 
tattered garment or hunger-pinched features, and be 
moved to a noble generosity: this while utterly un- 
able to see in other cases the human need of suavity, 
of sympathy, of tenderness. Such a man is respected, 
but not liked, by women. There are times when a 
courteous listening to commonplace gossip or child- 
ish prattle is as effective a stroke of gallantry from 
man to woman as protection from wrong. 

Men having direct worldly interests at stake quickly 
discover how to win the good graces of women. Sales- 



296 



OUR KNIGHTS. 



men who are most patient, most deferential, make the 
greatest number of sales. Ministers who take a vital 
interest in the little things which constitute so large 
a part of woman's life may be sure of zealous adhe- 
rents to their doctrines, of warm personal friendship. 
Lawyers who listen graciously to the most illogical 
of statements, sedulously concealing the shrug of im- 
patience or the gesture of fatigue, inspire the most 
confidence in female clients. The physician who looks 
kindly and speaks gently, evincing sincere sympathy 
in the minutest details of his patient's case, quickly 
gains her suffrages. Women respect fame, they ad- 
mire skill; but, whenever possible, they let personality 
outweigh both fame and admiration. Yet, not all of 
these men who find it to their interests to practise 
patience and suavity towards women are possessed 
of imagination. So that we see very clearly how a 
well-defined motive can bring forth, if. not gallantry 
itself, yet so good a semblance as to be highly ser- 
viceable. 

That court-life fosters gallantry is not to be disputed : 
but to wish for a court for the sake of gallantry would 
be extremely irrational. Yet, women all like the pleas- 
ant things inspired by this passion, are, indeed, dis- 
posed to claim them as a natural right. To encourage, 
then, what is manifestly for the good of both sexes, 
becomes a part of our social creed at once agreeable 
and justifiable. For my part, I cannot imagine a 
woman not admiring strength, in whatever form it 
appear. It implies the brave soldier, the good sailor, 
the clever artisan, the steady workman ; it indicates 
the earnest preacher, the eloquent lawyer, the enthu- 



OUR KNIGHTS. 297 

siastic scientist; it shows the kingly merchant, the 
adventurous explorer, the inspired orator. These are 
the knights of active life. In the realm of Letters, 
we find strength manifested in the historian, in the 
biographer, in the essayist; find it in the master of 
fiction, in the poet, in the philosopher. 

Nor can I imagine a man not admiring beauty in 
woman in whatever way apparent. In one, it is in 
symmetry of features, in perfection of form, in ex- 
quisite coloring. In another, it is goodness of heart 
joined to a graciousness of manner which enhances 
the goodness to illimitable proportions. In another, 
it is culture of intellect at once wide and deep, but so 
daintily enclosed in modesty and gentleness that it 
repels any imputation of either coldness or would-be 
competition with masculine minds. In yet another, it 
is the clinging affection that finds complete felicity in 
conjugal and maternal love. In another, it is the pure 
essence of self-denial which flows from the life of a 
woman debarred from the natural play of her affec- 
tions, but devoting herself to a noble work of philan- 
thropy, of education, or of art. 

In brief, strength and beauty are always ready to 
interchange worship. And this — aided in men by all 
the attributes of courage, knowledge, and experience, 
in women, by those of trust, tenderness, and devotion 
— brings about those relations which reach their high- 
est round of worth in knighthood and in ladyhood. 

Gallantry is often put to severe tests. Women 
of warm sensibilities are liable to be carried into 
positions which they themselves, in moments of re- 
flection, recognize as untenable. At the time, how- 

26 



298 



OUR KNIGHTS. 



ever, they want to be there, insist upon it with femi- 
nine petulance. They " see no reason why" they can- 
not have the thing they ask of their chosen knight, 
whether it be a letter, a walk, a visit, a talk. Yet, 
men may see many reasons why the granting of a 
woman's wish might work mischief Gallantry impels 
to gratification: judgment withholds the gift which 
would injure. 

Imagine yourself a lover, one ardent enough for 
the most loving of women. Gallant by nature as you 
are, you yet marvel at the augmented courtesy Love 
brings. Not a day, not an hour that it does not long 
to give some new manifestation. The woman who 
for the time being personates to you the sweet god- 
dess, is incessantly in your thoughts, in your feelings, 
in your soul. You cannot escape the spell thrown 
round you by fate. Reason has no part in it, this you 
know, this you even admit, — but without in the least 
altering your condition. You cannot forget your 
love — you- do not wish to forget — you think it the 
divinest essence Nature can yield. You are daring, 
you are reckless, you are possessed. Being this, you 
take any risks, expose yourself to arty danger, rush 
headlong into any adventure — you fear nothing. This, 
as concerns yourself 

But, lo, there is another side to the question — a 
woman's fair name to consider ! You are a knight, 
well versed in all the arts of knighthood. You are 
brave, enduring, high-spirited. Added to and greatly 
increasing your natural mettle is this dominating pas- 
sion. You feel yourself capable of overcoming every 
obstacle, vanquishing every enemy ; but you do not 
put forth the power you hold within your grasp — 



OUR KNIGI/TS. 299 

you bear in mind the woman! For her sake, you 
deny yourself the dearest rights. For, while you 
might take without hesitation or scruple all that Love 
offers, she, the woman, could not take it without pain- 
ful protest and subsequent self-reproaches. And as a 
true knight, have you not sworn to protect the weak, 
to succor the distressed, to redress the wronged ? 

Womanhood is sacred to you. It is all that mother, 
sister, wife, daughter, personate to you of beauty and 
goodness. Love, then, does not undermine your rev- 
erence for woman. You cannot hold yourself respon- 
sible for the shaft sent into your heart, — that came 
without warning in a moment when you were wholly 
unconscious of danger. But in the service of chivalry 
you endure pain, you resist attack upon a weaker 
mortal even at the cost of your own life-blood. This 
you do, and do it without parade of your feelings or 
courage, without seeking so much as a look or a word 
from the woman you shield. She, too, has been struck 
by a shaft from the same cunning marksman who, 
spite of blindness, never once misses his aim. And 
the wound will not heal so loner as her thousfhts cro 
back to that fairy-land sung by Heine, there 

" Wo alle Iiaume sprechen 
Und singen, wie ein Chor, 
Und laute Quellen brechen 
Wie Tanzmusik hervor; — 

*' Und Liebesweisen tonen, 
Wie du sie nie gehoit, 
Bis wundersiisses Sehnen 
Dich wundersuss bethort." 

Living over the past, lingering in every scene, in 
every incident, in every word, in every mute moment 



300 OUR KNIGHTS. 

— too eloquent for speech — all the present seems cold 
and lifeless. Her demonstrations are not as vehement 
as yours; but less outflow means more inward pressure. 

She is disturbed by the clear thinking which ranges 
facts and possibilities side by side in unmistakable 
order. The situation mars her peace, harasses self- 
consciousness. She resolves to escape from the heavy 
atmosphere of doubt; determines to pierce the sub- 
tleties which insensibly have led her into specious de- 
ductions. But when did resolve and self-promises ever 
prevent a woman wounded by Love from running into 
danger ? And this woman displays all the wayward- 
ness of that bitter-sweet malady. Saying*' no!" she 
acts "yes!" Vowing "never again!" she yet murmurs 
''just once more!" whenever the incense is proffered. 
And, notwithstanding deep chagrin at the weakness 
her mind discerns, she gradually verges towards im- 
prudence, towards treacherous ground. 

At this crisis, you, O gallant knight, come to her 
rescue. Your brain is stronger, your arm is stronger: 
your heart, even when wounded, is true to its native 
principle — loyalty to woman. With the full power of 
your will merged in action, you encounter the anom- 
alcfus conditions which environ your enslaved princess, 
and with one resolute blow break the enchantment. 

The effect is instantaneous. All is over — all save 
a memory for both knight and lady. Yet, as the fit- 
ting reward of chivalry, there comes to you from the 
fair lady's hands a pure-white silken banner inscribed 
in letters of gold with the words : Woman's hero is he 
who loves her most and honors her most. 



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